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Chapter Text

This is the strong comrade, the one who brings help to his friend in his need. He is the strongest of wild creatures...when you see him you will be glad; you will love him as a woman and he will never forsake you. This is the meaning of the dream.

Eton College, 1928

(Michaelmas.)

Charles lines up the last of his books on the small shelf hanging over his desk, then takes a step back to admire the effect. "I think that's the last of it, then," he says. "Thanks ever so much for all your help, Raven," he adds dryly, turning to look at her, sprawled out on his bed as she has been for the last three-quarters of an hour, watching him unpack his things for the new term. "I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Oh, please, you know the pleasure of my company was more than enough," she says, rising languidly from the bed. At her movement, McCoy, seated at his desk, his nose already in one of his textbooks, jumps up respectfully.

"Are you leaving, then?" he asks nervously. "Would you like some tea before you go?"

"Thanks, no, McCoy," she replies with a smile, shooting Charles the quickest of looks out of the corner of her eye. "But it was lovely seeing you." She crosses the room and kisses him once on each cheek, causing him to flush scarlet. "Come on, Charles, walk me out."

"You're quite cruel to him," Charles informs her as they leave Cotton Hall House and walk towards High Street. Evening is falling, but the campus is still aflutter with activity as the boys enjoy their last hours of freedom before term starts, or attempt to send off lingering family members. "You know he fancies you."

"Does he? Even though he thinks I'm blood-related to you?" She pulls a surprised expression and slips her arm inside his as they walk. "Me, a lowly barmaid?"

"That's not funny," he tells her sternly. "You know that I think you'd do quite well at Windsor, and I still think you could enter as a sixth former. You—"

"Or even here," she suggests dryly, and in an instant, a young man is strolling beside him in full Eton dress. "I could call myself Randolph and say I'm your brother."

"Raven! Not here!" Charles looks around quickly, but no one is near them in the lane; the boys playing cricket in the field beside them are far too absorbed in the game to notice anything. Raven just laughs and resumes her usual form.

"We've had this conversation a tedious number of times already, Charles," she says, sounding half tired, half amused. "I'm not interested in memorizing fifty lines of Latin every night and—and singing in the bloody choir. This is your life, not mine."

"I thought you said my singing voice sounds like a goose being cooked alive."

"Oh, it does." They reach the main road and stop walking. She regards him fondly. "Dear Charles, always trying to fix everyone's lives. Well, I'm quite happy with mine, as you very well know. And I'm glad you're happy with yours, even if it is a frightful bore a lot of the time." She casts a doubtful eye over the school's imposing architecture, and then embraces him, allowing him to kiss her cheek.

"I'll see you at the end of term, then?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"Wouldn't miss it," she tells him with a smile. "It just wouldn't be Christmas if I wasn't holed up in your common room listening to you bang on about The Origin of Species or whatever it is."

"McCoy says he's got a new edition. Perhaps you two can discuss it over a picnic."

She smirks at this and turns to leave. "I'll write you," she calls over her shoulder, adding silently, he suspects, you wanker.

"I heard that," Charles calls at her back, and he hears her laugh and knows he was right. He turns and strolls back across the campus as twilight falls, hands in his pockets, already missing her but devoutly glad to be back. The summer holidays are always unpleasant, stuck at home with his stepbrother glowering at him and cracking his knuckles threateningly, even though he never dares trying to beat him up anymore. He usually spends all his time either reading or down the pub with Raven, just waiting for term to start again so he can return to his lessons, his books and ideas; ever since his mother's death, school has felt far more like home than the mansion ever did.

He passes the tennis courts and comes upon Walpole House, catching sight of the Head, Shaw, strutting about in front of the doors as though he owns the place—which, Charles reminds himself, he practically does, having been elected President of Eton Society, as everyone had known he would. "Hurry up there, you," Shaw barks, and Charles starts, at first thinking he is being addressed, and then realizing that Shaw is looking at a boy whom Charles has never seen before and who is attempting to drag a large, battered trunk up the stairs of the house by himself. "It's Quiet Hours; you should've been moved in hours ago."

The boy lifts his head and Charles gets a good look at him: as tall as Shaw already, though clearly younger, from the way he's talking to him, about Charles' own age, lean and sinewy, with light eyes—he can't quite tell what color from that distance—and a blunt mouth that is very nearly harsh. Coppery highlights glint in his hair in the light of the setting sun as he turns his head to shoot Shaw a look of loathing. For a moment, Charles forgets what he's doing and where he's going and simply stands, looking. The boy wipes sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist and grabs hold of the end of the trunk again, and in the same moment, glances up and sees Charles.

It feels almost like a sudden, powerful gust of wind, except it's inside him rather than out: when they make eye contact, Charles is walloped with—something, a blast of emotion that is not his own. It's not thoughts, exactly; it's not like when he manages to tune in to other people's minds and catch fragmented words in their inner voice. It's just a pure sense of desire, a demanding want. He doesn't know if he's the one doing the pulling or the one being pushed, but a moment later, without any conscious decision, he's walking towards the House and the boy, their eyes still locked, and half-extending a hand.

"I say, d'you need—?"

"On your way, Xavier," Shaw snaps, looking down at them both from his position on the porch. "This doesn't concern you." Charles doesn't move; neither does the boy, and Shaw takes a threatening step closer to them both. "Have I said something unclear? Back to your House, or your Head'll hear of this."

Charles jerks his gaze away from the boy's and glances up at Shaw, who folds his arms menacingly, and Charles retreats. "Right, sorry," he says, feeling oddly dazed.

"Sorry, what?"

"Sorry, Shaw," he mutters, turning to go. He should've known Shaw would be at his very worst now that he was a senior and the President of bloody Pop to boot; he had garnered a reputation as the cruelest prefect in the school a few years back and had only gotten worse since. Charles has been trying to avoid him since his first year, and now he's gone and earned his wrath on the very first day back. Still, he can't help but glance over his shoulder as he heads for Cotton Hall House, looking back at the new boy, determinedly pulling his trunk up the stairs, his cheeks flushed with the effort, Shaw smirking as he watches.

What had just happened? He's never felt anything like that before. He'd figured out a number of years ago how to stop the headaches and tune into others' minds occasionally, and now almost always manages to get a few words and fragments of thoughts, but it's still always a bit fuzzy, like a badly tuned wireless. He's never been utterly doused in a sensation like that, not just from looking at someone...

He's still dwelling on it when he lets himself back into his room, shadowy now and lit only by McCoy's lamp, and he lays down on his bed, hands folded under his head, still faintly aware of the strange sensation, like a ringing in his ears from a loud noise. McCoy, still perched at his desk, glances up from his book.

"Er," he says, in a would-be casual tone. "So, your sister...she hasn't got, you know—she isn't spoken for or anything yet, is she?"

"What?" Charles shakes himself, looking over at him, the words taking several seconds to penetrate his brain. "Oh. Oh, no, I don't think so."

"Oh. All right, then. I was just wondering. She's quite nice. When you were in the other room she had a look at my books and she seemed rather interested in my editions of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and I was telling her that my studies have revealed that..."

Charles barely hears him. He feels as though his mind has been broken into, a door blasted open that he hadn't even known existed, and yet it doesn't feel like a violation. It feels like a recognition.

He goes to the window and looks out towards Walpole House, as if a signpost might have been erected in the last quarter of an hour explaining what just occurred there. He's got to find out who the stranger is; that seems essential. He needs to see him again.

***

It's three days before he sees the boy again. Three days of craning his neck in crowded corridors and in the dining hall, looking for that face and those eyes. Finally, at morning break on Monday, he spots him across the courtyard, reading alone on a bench. His hair looks a good deal redder in the direct daylight. Charles hesitates on the spot for several long moments, half wanting to march straight over to him, half oddly frightened by the prospect. He can think of no sensible reason for his apprehension, but it feels somehow very...exposed. He glances around and, after another minute, spots a Walpole House second-year boy starting across the quad. He clears his throat.

"You there," he calls. He's never been one much for the fagging scene, forcing the younger boys to fetch him things and warm lavatory seats for him and all the rest of it, but in this case it seems prudent to use him. The boy startles and looks up with that trademark expression of skittish anxiety at being called upon by an older boy, but quickly comes over to Charles all the same, trying to balance his new top hat on his dark, windswept hair.

"Quested, J.S., please, Xavier." He seems unsure if he's supposed to look up into Charles' face or subserviently down at the ground, and settles for peering at Charles' left shoulder.

"Who is that, Quested?" Charles asks, nodding in the mysterious boy's direction. Quested looks across the yard, past the fountain playing in the center, and Charles can see him thinking hard, scanning through the dozens of names and faces of older boys that he has been commanded to memorize as part of his servile duties. Charles remembers the feeling of panic at being put on the spot at that age—it would have been a lot easier, of course, if he could've just listened in and found the right reply in the questioner's mind, but at the time he wasn't practiced enough even for that.

"That's Lehnsherr," Quested says suddenly, looking relieved to have recalled it. "He's a new sixth former, Xavier. One of those scholarship boys, I think."

Charles raises his eyebrows, mildly surprised by both pieces of information. "Lehnsherr? What is that, German?" The number of spots for sixteen-year-old entrants to Eton were few to begin with; he wouldn't have guessed that a German would've been admitted to one of one of them, not given the attitudes around the place since the war.

"I think so, Xavier," Quested says. Then he bites down on his lip, evidently debating whether he should say more. "And he's..."

"He's...what?" Charles prompts. Quested glances back at the boy—Lehnsherr—again, and then looks up at Charles with a furtive, slightly gleeful expression, as though bursting with a scandalous secret.

"They say he's a Jew," he finishes, lowering his voice and drawing the word out slightly. Charles just looks blandly back into Quested's face, and the malicious grin beginning to tug at the boy's mouth vanishes, as though he is thoroughly taken aback by Charles' lack of a shocked reaction.

"And?" Charles asks coolly, as if he doesn't know why he's mentioning it, although he of course does. Quested goes pink in the face and fiddles with a loose button on his coat.

"Well—it's not quite right, is it?" he asks, now addressing Charles' shoulder again. "I mean, there are hardly any of them here, and we—we have chapel, and they shouldn't..." He trails off awkwardly, but Charles continues watching him expectantly, not intending to allow him off the hook, and he goes even redder, looking down at his shoes. "Killed our Lord, didn't they," he adds in a mumble.

"Oh, he did? Him personally?" Charles asks, gesturing to Lehnsherr across the way, still absorbed in his book. "My, looks awfully good for his age, doesn't he." Quested fidgets. "Besides, I rather doubt that everyone in this school is directly descended from Henry Six anyway, regardless of what they might claim. Where are your people from, Quested?"

The boy looks petrified. "Es—Essex, Xavier," he quavers. But when Charles furrows his brow slightly and concentrates, he hears a jumble of words he doesn't know, rushed and panicky inside the boy's mind: —kérjük, ne kérdezd apám, senki sem tudja—*

He sighs and shakes his head. Everyone hides something or other. "Never mind. Do you know if—"

"What's all this, then?" Shaw appears from nowhere, swaggering into sight, his black King's Scholar gown fluttering more like an opera cape than anything else. He looks between the two of them. "Well, Quested?"

"Please, Shaw," Quested says tremulously. "Xavier was just asking about—about Lehnsherr."

Shaw's eyebrows rise, mirroring Charles' expression of a few minutes before. "Indeed?" He looks at him. "And just why is that?"

"Just curious." Charles looks at him levelly.

"I see." Without removing his eyes from Charles' face, he says "Fetch me a tea with lemon, Quested." Quested, however, is not paying attention, and is instead looking over his shoulder in some apprehension at Lehnsherr. Shaw cuffs him impatiently around the ear with the book he's holding, and Charles flinches. "I meant now."

"Yes, Shaw. Sorry." Quested scampers away at once, as if grateful to get away from the scene, rubbing his ear as he goes. Shaw glances over at Lehnsherr too, then back at Charles.

"You should know better than to associate with a scug like that, Xavier," he tells him. "You do know what he is?"

"I was under the impression that he was a student," Charles replies calmly. Shaw's eyes narrow slightly as he looks down his slightly turned-up nose at him.

"You've got a bloody cheek, haven't you," he says, his voice soft and dangerous. Charles just looks back at him, waiting. "Now get to class," he adds, even though there's another twenty minutes left of break. He walks away from Charles, heading across the courtyard to Lehnsherr, and Charles watches as he looks up with a defiant expression. Shaw appears to give him an order, pointing towards the nearest class building, and when Lehnsherr doesn't move, Shaw knocks the book from his hands onto the ground. Lehnsherr stands very slowly and looks Shaw straight in the eye for a moment, their faces close together, before stooping with deliberate leisure to collect his belongings.

A slight grin curves Charles' mouth. This is definitely someone he wants to know. Lehnsherr, he says inside his head. He likes the way it sounds, like a mouth against skin.

***

And by some miracle, when he walks into fencing club with McCoy the next evening, there he is, standing by the wall, next to the rusty equipment rack, again not talking to anyone. McCoy fidgets with his mask. "I spent my summer reading the entire works of Dumas, and yet I don't feel that I'll be any more adroit with a blade," he grumbles. "One would think I might've acquired some subconscious skill. I'm fairly certain I prefer cricket. At least I can see what I'm doing there. I feel like a cave-diver in one of these."

"Have courage, mon ami," Charles says, patting him on the back. "I'm sure you'll be excellent. And if not, I'm not sure it's a necessary life skill anymore. I hardly think Oxford will determine your acceptance on swashbuckling skills alone. But if Richelieu turns up and orders you to a duel, I'm afraid you're cooked." McCoy chuckles ruefully. Charles glances across the room. "Er, I'll be right back."

He crosses the room with deliberate indifference, wending his way around two third-years who are pretending to disembowel one another. As he gets closer to him, another boy knocks into Lehnsherr's shoulder—possibly on purpose, Charles can't tell, and Lehnsherr drops his glove. And in a moment worthy, Charles thinks, of D'Artagnan himself, he bends down and picks it up.

Their eyes meet as Charles hands it to him. He gives a nod of thanks. "Not at all," Charles says. Then, recklessly, "I'm Xavier, Charles Xavier."

The boy just looks at him for a moment, appraisingly, and then says, "Erik. Lehnsherr." Charles hears a distinct clip to his voice, the Rs spoken from his throat and a sharpening of certain letters that confirms his guess about the boy's surname. And his eyes are green—or perhaps blue.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." Lehnsherr looks at Charles' proffered hand, seemingly amused at this show of formality, but takes it all the same. Charles feels an odd leap of contentment at this successful exchange, and then fumbles for something else clever to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is "So, you're one of the new sixth formers?"

"Yes," he replies, with something between defiance and pride. Charles gives an encouraging nod.

"Well done," he says. "That's quite difficult, isn't it? I know they don't take many at all every year, you must really—"

"All right, lads, enough nattering," the instructor calls loudly, and Charles breaks off as the others fall silent. "We'll just run basic moves tonight, as it's the first lesson of term. Have we got any new recruits?"

Two second-years put up their hands, looking terrified, as does Lehnsherr, looking matter-of-fact. The instructor pairs the two young boys with other students and then approaches Lehnsherr. "Had any experience?"

"Yes, sir," he replies smoothly. Behind him, Charles spots Azwell, a strapping fourth-year with a scar running along his one of his pale blue eyes; it stands out white and noticeable against the sunburn he apparently acquired in Majorca over the holiday, exacerbating his rather fierce appearance. As Charles watches, he leans over and mutters something to Leland, the boy beside him, his gaze on Lehnsherr's back.

"All right, then, into the queue with you, let's see what you can do." The boys shuffle themselves into lines, and Charles finds himself several places ahead of Lehnsherr. When it is his turn, he holds his own respectably well for a few minutes as the coach directs him from the side; he's never been much for the sport, but he's wiry and quick. When his round ends, he heads to the bench against the wall, giving McCoy an encouraging grin as he passes him.

Soon Lehnsherr is up, paired against Azwell. Charles realizes that he is holding his breath as he watches Lehnsherr dueling the other boy, his movements lithe and confident; he's clearly better than Azwell and most of the rest of them. Within a few minutes he parries Azwell's strikes and knocks him to the floor with a well-timed thrust, and Charles gives a whoop of celebration from the sidelines. Lehnsherr turns around at the noise, and as absurd as it is, for a moment Charles thinks he can see a grin through his mask. Then, in a second, Azwell is up on his feet and dealing Lehnsherr a crashing blow across the shoulder before he has fully turned around, and he falls hard to the mat. Leland and the other boys laugh from the queue, and Charles has to resist the urge to jump to his feet and sprint right over to him.

"Steady on, there," the instructor bawls, striding forward to meet them on the mat. "That's an illegal move, that is, Azwell. Take a seat." Azwell rips off his mask, looking mutinous and even more red-faced, and rejoins his mates on the opposite side of the room. Charles sees them shooting looks over at Lehnsherr, who gets quickly to his feet and heads for the wall as the next two boys step forward. He pulls his mask off as well and runs his hand back through his sweaty red hair. Charles stands and meets him as he walks over.

"Are you all right, then?" he asks. "I saw that, that was quite unsportsmanlike."

"I would expect nothing more," Lehnsherr spits. Then, seeing that Charles is still watching him, adds, "Yes, I'm fine," although he winces very slightly as he sets his foil down and sits back down on the end of the bench. Charles looks over and sees the other boys huddled together, casting dark looks over Lehnsherr—at both of them.

"They're just—you're new, and you're better than he is; it's tradition to give you a bit of a hard time, I think it's—" Charles says, somewhat lamely, but he breaks off at the look on Lehnsherr's face.

"You think that's all it is?" he says challengingly, and the jovial lie that Charles is about to tell dies on his lips.

"No," he says. He sits down again beside him on the bench. "No, that's not all." Lehnsherr turns to look at him, and this time Charles holds his gaze. "And for what it's worth, I think that's all a lot of rubbish."

"Do you?" he asks, and Charles realizes that he is genuinely waiting for an answer.

"Yes," he replies, and the rest tumbles out of his mouth before he quite decides to let it: "I think it's what we choose to do that matters, not what's been chosen for us. That alone doesn't determine who we are."

Lehnsherr looks slightly startled for a moment, but then gives the first real smile that Charles has yet seen. It's more mischievous than he would have guessed, and it gives Charles another odd shiver of happiness. "I suppose you're right," he says. "What are you, one of those analysts?"

Charles smiles back. "No, I just...listen," he says, deciding that it's close enough to the truth, for now. "And I've found that most people aren't what they claim to be anyway. You wouldn't believe some of the things they'll admit when...when they think no one can hear them."

"Is that so?" Lehnsherr asks, and his grin lingers. He seems about to ask more, but at that moment the coach claps his hand briskly and calls an end to the lesson slightly early, and they both jump to their feet. "We've still got a bit of time until Quiet Hour," Charles says, consulting his watch. "D'you perhaps want to—"

"All right there, Bochie?" Leland calls suddenly to Lehnsherr as he strides back across the gymnasium, heading for the rickety old equipment rack to replace his foil. "You want to watch your back a bit more carefully next time, eh?" he adds in a loud, pugnacious tone that suggests that there will indeed be a next time. Beside him, Azwell and the others laugh again.

Lehnsherr's eyes narrow, but he doesn't reply. Charles turns to him to say something, although nothing comes to mind, but at that moment McCoy comes up hurrying up to him on his other side, clutching his gloves tightly in one hand and looking pleased.

"I say, did you see that?" he crows happily. "I finally got him. I feinted left and he jolly well went for it. I think all that reading really did pay off."

"Oh—yes," Charles says, quickly deciding not to admit that he hadn't been paying the slightest bit of attention to anything else going on in the room. "Yes, well done, old man."

It happens in a fraction of an instant, in the moment when he half-turns back to Lehnsherr, intending to invite him to the dining hall with himself and McCoy for tea and biscuits. Just as he starts to open his mouth to pose the question, Lehnsherr, who isn't looking at him but rather frowning at something across the room, half raises his empty right hand, his fingers spread. There is a yelp from the corner of the room, and Charles whips around along with everyone else to see the topmost bar on the equipment rack swinging loose, sending a number of neatly-hung foils onto the floor and onto Leland and Azwell, who happen to be standing in front of it. Azwell is knocked off balance by a blow to the side of his head from a heavy épée and topples ungracefully to the floor, looking stunned. The coach sprints over, looking alarmed, and there is a burst of chatter and nervous laughter as some younger boys hurry forward to help pick up the mess and others merely stand by and watch.

Charles isn't sure what he saw. But for a second, he definitely catches sight of a satisfied smirk on Lehnsherr's face.

***

From there, they seem to see a lot more of one another. At first Charles thinks that it's his doing, that he's simply always got an eye out for him, but he soon notices, to his distinct pleasure, that Lehnsherr is seeking him out as well. For the most part he seems singularly disinterested in socialization; Charles only ever sees him alone or occasionally with his roommate, a boy called Summers, about whom there is a vague and unsubstantiated rumor that he has been caned more times than his entire house combined for various infractions. But whenever Lehnsherr spots Charles, within a few minutes he is by his side, hands in his pockets, often saying nothing much more than "All right, Xavier?"

More than once he joins him and McCoy for meals in Bekynton, the dining hall, although he never says much then either, preferring to listen rather than talk as McCoy and Charles rhapsodize about their latest experiments and ideas. He soon proves himself to be rather brainy as well, however, and Charles is nothing short of dazzled when he offhandedly reveals his linguistic talents in their literature lesson one day, when he is tasked with reading a few poems aloud and opts for their original forms, flowing effortlessly from Baudelaire to Cervantes, his sharp accent dissolving alluringly into the softer, rolling sounds of French and Spanish. When Charles writes and how the devil did you learn all that? on the corner of his diary and shifts it sideways to show him, Lehnsherr just smiles and writes back simply lived in a lot of places. He seems to prefer European history the most, however; he speaks up the most in that class, at any rate, and nearly always to give a correct answer as he takes diligent notes. None of this endears him much to the other boys, of course, and after a few weeks Charles hears them sneering "clever dick" at him in the corridors, adding to the long list of other rude words they already use for him. Charles has faced a fair bit of that himself over the years, being disliked for being clever, but Lehnsherr acts as though he doesn't notice most of the time, and every time he shows one of them up in class it gives Charles an undue sense of pride. You show them. He can't quite understand it: he's had his share of mates before; there's no sensible reason why the blossoming of this particular friendship should be so...affecting. But Lehnsherr's different.

One evening, towards the middle of term, Charles glances at his watch as he sits in the library working on a particularly complicated lab report and realizes that he is twenty minutes late for evening services. He rolls his eyes, annoyed half with himself and half with the tradition that forces him to abandon his studies for a spot of daily religious reflection; it always seems a bit wasteful to him. His Head of House will probably give him a few demerits for not turning up, but he'll get them for turning up late anyway, so he decides to return to his common room and finish up his work there.

As he cuts through the main hall, however, he hears faint music from a side room and—he can't tell if the two sensations are connected or merely occurring simultaneously, but he feels a touch of that same tug, that same irresistible pull as he did that first day. And somehow he's not altogether surprised when he follows the sound into a side chamber and finds Lehnsherr there alone, seated at the piano. A nearby table is spread out with newspapers and what appear to be maps; it seems as though he was attempting some schoolwork before getting distracted, and he is now playing—quite well—what sounds like Mendelssohn. Charles waits until he has finished a movement, and then applauds from the doorway. Lehnsherr turns quickly.

"Not bad at all," Charles says with a grin, entering.

"Skiving off chapel, are we?" Lehnsherr asks by way of a reply. "Awfully naughty of you."

"So are you," Charles points out, and then realizes his blunder. Lehnsherr laughs outright at the look on his face.

"D'you play?" he asks, gesturing to the piano. Charles shrugs.

"A bit. Not terribly well, I'm afraid."

Lehnsherr slides over on the bench. "Come on, then, let's have it." Charles sets down his books on the edge of the table and then moves to sit beside him, his heart fluttering slightly as though he's just run up a flight of stairs. Lehnsherr shuffles through a pile of sheet music lying on top of the piano, and then shows him one: a waltz in B major for four hands.

"Why not." Charles knows he's out of practice, and yet he's oddly unconcerned; for some reason he doesn't feel like he can embarrass himself in front of Lehnsherr anymore. They start to play, haltingly at first, then more elegantly, and Charles is pleased to find that the skill comes back to him reasonably easily, although he finds himself distracted by Lehnsherr's hands. They're slightly long-fingered, but broad, and his movements are confident and deft, nearly sensual. His right hand brushes Charles' left ever so slightly, and Charles feel a tiny shock, a snap against his skin, like when he reaches for a doorknob after walking across a thick carpet. He jolts slightly and hits a wrong note, fracturing the brisk melody.

"Dash it all," Charles says, removing his hands from the keys and smiling. "You're better than I am. Where did you learn?"

"My mother taught me," he said. "Started to, anyway, when I was quite young. I stopped for a while." He contemplates his hands, still resting on the black and white polished wood. "I find myself missing it a bit now I'm here, though."

"You're lucky your parents aren't close by, or I expect they'd be harping on you to practice more, talent like yours," Charles tells him, still smiling. Lehnsherr looks at him quickly and then back at his hands, his forehead creasing.

"They're dead, actually."

Heat rushes to Charles' face. "Christ. I'm frightfully sorry." Lehnsherr half shrugs. "No, I am, I shouldn't have...I do apologize." He pauses. "Were they...was it the war?"

Lehnsherr nods and is silent for a moment, but then he takes a quick breath and continues, his eyes still downcast. "They sent me away when the food ran out. I lived with relatives in France for a while, but my aunt and uncle died of the flu in ‘20, and then later I...found out what happened."

Charles' skin seems to crawl. He remembers studying it in his earlier years of school, the Allied blockade, all those people who'd essentially starved to death...he'd found the idea disturbing even then; it was bad enough so many had died in battle, but to condemn so many innocent people as well seemed thoroughly wrong to him. Of course, it had seemed equally wrong that any country would allow that to happen to its own people, so he'd been quite mixed-up about it ever since. He'd received a telling-off in his second year for questioning it, with his professor snapping that he'd ruddy well be heiling Wilhelm II right then if it wasn't for that blockade, but he's still never liked it. And it feels a thousand times worse sitting besides Lehnsherr now, picturing him as a small boy with his red hair and his serious face, thinking about him being shipped off and leaving his parents behind, waiting years to hear of their fate and then finding out that he would never see them again...

"I'm—very sorry," he mumbles again, quite at a loss of what to say. "I never thought—that is, I always quite disliked the idea of...well, I just hope you don't think we're all of, erm, like-minded—" He breaks off when Lehnsherr looks up at him.

"You don't have to apologize, Xavier," he says, and Charles is profoundly relieved to see that he is giving him a small, reassuring smile. "I hardly blame you personally. I'm not in the habit of denouncing an entire nation because of what some did. And I daresay there's blame to go around on both sides, anyway."

"Oh," Charles says, rather stupidly. "Right. Well, that's good. I'm glad. I shouldn't like to think that we—well, you know." He mentally kicks himself a few times and then, because it seems unreasonable not to say it, adds "So are mine. My parents, I mean. They're dead." Lehnsherr looks up at him again. "I hardly mean to compare the circumstances, of course, but, well, I suppose it's always a rather rotten thing."

Lehnsherr nods. "What happened?"

"Father died when I was eleven; accident in the lab. Or that's what they said, anyway. Then Mother two years ago from cancer. I've got a stepfather, but he's not...terribly fond of me. I'm not even sure he was all that fond of my mother, really, so much as her fortune." He's never really discussed this with anyone other than Raven before, not even McCoy. And yet it feels natural and surprisingly easy, telling him. "We put on a fairly good show of it, I suppose, but we're not..."

"Not family?" Lehnsherr asks shrewdly. Charles gives a wry smile.

"No, not particularly. And my stepbrother and I—well, we're not quite the best of chums either. Raven's family, certainly, but she's not blood, of course, and she doesn't live in the house anymore, so it's a bit..." He searches for a dignified word and finds none. "Lonely, sometimes."

"I'm sorry too, then," Lehnsherr tells him. He looks out of the window. "Family is quite important."

"I agree." Charles studies his sharp profile for a moment, and then Lehnsherr looks back at the piano keys.

"Well. Shall we give it another try?"

They attempt the waltz again, and Charles decides that it sounds rather impressive after a bit, once they fall into the right rhythm together. When chapel ends, they give the others long enough to get back to their Houses before setting off themselves, walking across the dark grounds together.

"I've still got this report to finish," Charles grouses, shifting a heavy book from one arm to the other as they head along the lane. "Whoever wrote this textbook ought to be taken out to the shed and shot; these diagrams are just awful. You can't even tell where the mitochondria—"

"Lehnsherr." Shaw is on the porch, eerily outlined from behind by the lights of Walpole House, his features invisible in the darkness. They both stop in their tracks. "You're not meant to be wandering around beyond After Five. Where've you been?"

"Out," Lehnsherr retorts, looking mulishly up at him.

"Out where?"

"Somewhere that isn't here, clearly."

Shaw takes a step towards him, onto the top step of the house. Lehnsherr doesn't move. Charles notices that his both of hands have curled into fists.

"Does your insolence know no bounds?" Shaw asks, his voice icy. "It's quite insulting enough that you're here, where you clearly do not at all belong, but then you decide to flout the rules that the rest of us have managed to follow for centuries. As special as you may think yourself, I assure you that you do not have the right to simply do as you wish. You need a good lesson in respect."

Lehnsherr still says nothing, just looks into his face with a kind of detached fury. A muscle twitches in Shaw's cheek. "Get inside. The kitchen area needs sweeping, and you've just earned the privilege."

"I'm having a conversation with Xavier just now, obviously."

Shaw takes another step closer. "I wasn't giving you a choice." Lehnsherr looks ready to fire back with something else, but Charles just shakes his head very slightly. This battle of wills between them is going further than he thought it would, and he doesn't at all like it. At first he'd been glad that he was standing up to him, that someone was finally putting Shaw in his place, but this is going too far.

"It's not worth it," he murmurs. "Go on. I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

Lehnsherr appears to deliberate for a moment, but then says simply "Fine, then," and marches straight past Shaw into the house, his shoulders squared. And as he moves away, Charles bites down on his lip and focuses his mind and hears, more clearly and fully than he has ever heard anyone:

You have no idea what I can do.

(Winter holidays.)

Charles sits on the porch of Cotton Hall House, one hand wrapped around a cup of tea as he rereads his copy of Hamlet. It has been snowing for perhaps an hour so far, and the grounds are silent and nearly empty, as most students went home for Christmas the day before. Charles stays behind, however, as he always does, and Raven is due to arrive that evening. They've done the same thing for the past three years that he's been at school, as spending several weeks shut up with Kurt and Cain is about the least festive thing he's ever experienced. He's never said it aloud, but he knows that Raven most likely has far better invitations, and he's always inexpressibly grateful that she comes and shares the holiday with him instead.

He's still sitting there reading after it's officially gone dark, and so he doesn't notice the figure clomping up the path until he's on the porch, wrapped in a wool coat and shaking snow from his hair. "Thought I'd find you here," Lehnsherr says. "Happy Christmas, Xavier."

"Oh, hello," Charles says, his voice casual but his heart leaping like a bird. He had suspected that Lehnsherr would be remaining at school for the break too, having nowhere else to go, but it's still a delight to see him there. "Er, you don't celebrate Christmas."

He shrugs. "You do."

"And it's nearly still a fortnight to go before the twenty-fifth."

"Carry on like this and I'm not going to give you your present." He throws himself into one of the wooden chairs, unfastening the top button on his coat. Tonight his eyes are blue, their hue just visible in the lamp hanging over the House front door and reflecting off the snow.

Charles fights to contain what will surely be a truly gormless smile. "You got me a present?"

"Well, it's to share." He flashes his slightly wicked grin and reaches into his coat, pulling out a golden-amber bottle of brandy.

"Where on Earth did you get that?" Charles asks, impressed, recognizing the rare, expensive brand. Lehnsherr grins more broadly.

"Shaw really ought to get a better lock on his door," he replies. "He's quite careless that way."

"Well, you may not celebrate it, but I assure you you've got the Christmas spirit down perfectly," Charles tells him, shaking his head, and he stands, taking one last swallow of the now-cold tea and pocketing his book. "Come on, let's go inside, it's freezing." They head inside the empty House and settle in the common room. Within ten minutes Charles has started a fire in the grate and Lehnsherr has taken off his coat, revealing a simple white collarless shirt and trousers with braces. Charles has never seen him out of Eton dress, and he looks older, somehow, in casual clothes, nearly dashing. He locates glasses and pours them each a liberal amount.

"We've got run of the place; everyone has left," Charles informs him, and Lehnsherr nods in contented approval, handing him his drink. "Cheers." Charles sits down in an armchair besides him and they clink glasses. They both drink, and after a moment Charles says "D'you mind if I ask—what is your holiday like? I know it involves candles, but I'm afraid that's where my expertise ends."

Lehnsherr smiles into his glass. "What, Hanukkah?" he says. "Celebration of a miracle. Bit of oil lasted for eight nights in the temple during a revolt."

"So what do you do?" Charles prompts. Lehnsherr cocks his head and looks at him, a fond expression playing over his face, and Charles feels suddenly a bit lightheaded, even though he's only had one swallow of liquor. He takes another gulp.

"Well, there's prayers, and certain foods and things, and then there's the candles." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. "Eight of them. You light one every night for eight nights, and you give presents. I remember we used to..." He trails off and looks into the fire, falling silent long enough for Charles to drain and top up his glass. "I think it's the earliest thing I can remember, actually," he says finally, more to himself than to Charles. "My mother and I, we'd do it together, and..." He stops again and shakes his head briskly, looking at his half-empty glass. "Hmm. Strong stuff, this."

"It sounds beautiful," Charles tells him, although he's not entirely sure if he meant to say it out loud. It is strong stuff. Tasty, though.

He smiles faintly. "Yes, rather," he allows. "I haven't really had a proper holiday in...well, since they died." He traces a finger around the rim of the glass. "I suppose I figured there's no point bothering by myself."

"This is a rather depressing time of year to be on one's own," Charles agrees, forcing himself not to add but you're not, you know.

"What about you? Shouldn't you be at home with a massive tree and crackers and songs about sleigh bells or whatever it is?" He finishes his drink in one gulp and pours another. Charles is moderately impressed.

"That's not quite Christmas at my house, I'm afraid," he tells him wryly. "It's more like a tree and the maid crying in the pantry and my brother locking me out in the snow for three hours." He tries to chuckle as he says it, as though it's a joke and Cain hadn't done precisely that four years previously, but he doesn't quite manage it.

"Blimey, Xavier. That might be the gloomiest holiday tale I've ever heard, and we've got one about rivers turning into blood."

"Well, I expect you can see why I prefer to stay here, then. It's a little quieter, but preferable, I assure you. My sister's coming soon, you'll meet her if you hang about." Lehnsherr nods his interest. "And I should very much like to see your holiday someday."

"Would you?" he asks with a slight snort. "Perhaps I should've done it this year. Just started in doing the blessings right in my common room. That would've gone well, eh?"

"You mustn't let Shaw get to you," Charles tells him, and Lehnsherr's jaw clenches at the mention of his name. "Really. He's just a strutting martinet with a tremendous ego who's desperate for a bit of attention, nothing more. And we'll be shot of him next year anyway, and then we'll be seniors." Earlier in the term Charles had told Lehnsherr a few stories of Shaw's other infamous acts of cruelty from previous terms, from before he had arrived at the school, in the hopes of making him see that he was just one of a string of unlucky scapegoats. However, the information seems to have increased, rather than decreased, Lehnsherr's simmering fury at Shaw, and Charles rather regrets having said anything.

Lehnsherr looks as though he's chewing something for a moment before saying "It's not just him."

"Well, you mustn't let any of them get to you, then," Charles amends, a bit impatiently. "They're all a bunch of puffed-up, stuffed-shirt tight-arses who know that they will never be anything more than their surnames and who find anything new or interesting or beyond the confines of their smoking rooms to be opprobrious and terrifying." Yes, he definitely didn't mean to say that out loud. Lehnsherr regards him for several seconds with his eyebrows nearly in his hairline, and then breaks into a loud, hearty laugh, nearly dropping his glass.

"Really, you mustn't mince words so. Do tell me how you really feel."

"I—do excuse me," he mutters, rubbing his forehead with a hand. "I think perhaps I'm a bit tight already."

"I should hope so; I didn't bring this so you might water your agapanthus with it," Lehnsherr replies, still chuckling, leaning over and pouring Charles another half-glass of brandy. "I can't say I don't agree with you, although I rather thought you had a fonder view of the place than that."

"Well, I—I do rather enjoy a lot of it, yes," he admits. "It's a lot better than being at home, for a start. And there are plenty of perfectly decent chaps to be found here as well, it's just that..." He doesn't quite want to say it; doesn't want to admit that Lehnsherr's arrival has forced him to examine just how disappointingly backwards and antiquated people there can sometimes be, because he's sure he should have noticed this before, especially given all the private things he's heard. "We're very fond of standing on ceremony here, but I often find it's based on nothing," he says finally. "And I daresay there's no point to tradition if it hinders progress."

Lehnsherr nods approvingly. "I think that deserves another toast," he says, and they touch glasses again. "Prosit." They drink again. "Progress, eh?"

"Evolution, if you will," Charles says. "I think it's quite illogical to resist change. It simply doesn't make sense to hold onto principles or—or traits that have been proven obsolete, no matter how damned comforting it might be."

"You sound like McCoy." They've both heard him discourse on the subject many times; he's been told off more than once for ruining dinner napkins with excited scribblings and diagrams. But Charles isn't talking about finches now. He takes another deep swallow of brandy and continues.

"Well, he's quite right, isn't he. We've got this idea that we've already figured out the ideal sort of person to be, so we're all meant to strive for that and then stop trying and just fall in line," he says, waving his glass a bit too emphatically. "We're all meant to say the same bloody prayers and take the same bloody courses as they did a century ago, and a century from now, and then we're all to troop off to Oxford and become, I don't know, barristers or something dull, and then consign our children to the exact same thing. It's nonsense. Ruddy ‘best of all possible worlds' or something."

"You are going to Oxford, you've said it a dozen times," Lehnsherr points out. Charles waves a dismissive hand.

"That's not the point," he protests, before glancing at Lehnsherr and realizing that he's laughing again. "I'm saying, it's about...it's about being afraid to take another...step. To be the first one to try—to be something different. To not hold yourself back because you don't fancy standing out." He can hear himself talking and he knows where he's headed; he can feel the words circling inside him, waiting to spring. He's been thinking about this moment for weeks, possibly longer, wondering if he could tell him and how and when—and also, if he can ask what he's been suspecting for some time now. That may be even trickier. An hour ago, he still wasn't sure; he'd only be the second other person, after Raven. But he's never wanted to tell anyone this badly, not even McCoy, and if his guess is right, then it would be madness not to. And something about the fire and the snow outside and the drink makes this seem like a perfect moment. Or perhaps it's just the drink; he can't tell.

"I think I've found that ‘standing out' is really just about everyone else looking in," Lehnsherr says dryly, tipping the amber liquid back and forth against the sides of his glass. "It has rather more to do with what they think than what you've actually done."

"It's about what they're afraid you can do," Charles tells him, and he nods his assent. Then Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Lehnsherr, can I tell you a secret?" He nods again. Charles sets his glass down carefully on the side table, and then closes his eyes, taking in a slow breath. He concentrates hard, a frown creasing his face. It's more difficult after several drinks, but after a moment he finds something. He opens his eyes and says "What was its name?"

"What's name?" Lehnsherr looks nonplussed.

"The dog," Charles says quietly. "The one your father gave you as a gift for Hanukkah when you were small. The one you were just thinking about."

Lehnsherr's eyebrows unknit themselves as his eyes widen and a look of blank shock comes over his face. He swallows. "How—how did you know that?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"That's what I can do," Charles tells him, still in the same soft tone. "I can hear things. Thoughts, I mean. Usually just bits and pieces, a few words, but sometimes it's images too. Depends on the circumstances. And sometimes I can make people hear me as well." Lehnsherr looks, if anything, more stunned. "I've nearly always been able to, although it took me quite some time to sort it all out. I used to get the most appalling headaches. My mother thought I had a nervous condition." Despite his excitement, he feels the old shard of grief twist in his heart at this thought; she hadn't lived long enough for him to tell her the truth—or to ask what she could do, if anything. He pushes this aside and continues. "I don't know why I can do it, or if anyone else can. I've never told anyone before, apart from my sister. But I...I wanted to tell you."

His monologue finished, he watches Lehnsherr's face closely for a reaction. He blinks several times and lets out a long, slow breath. "Fucking hell, Xavier," he mutters. "That's...that's—you're...wow."

Charles teeters on the edge of his next question for a moment, and then, spurred on by the fact that he hasn't sprinted from the room or lunged for a fireplace poker, catches Lehnsherr's gaze and asks "What can you do?"

His expression sharpens. "What?"

"You're like me, aren't you?" Charles asks, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. "I've sensed it in you. I think I have, at least. You're—something more."

Lehnsherr doesn't say anything, but the look on his face is as good as an affirmation. Charles bites down on his lip, this time failing entirely to hide his broad grin. "Go on, then," he urges him. "You can tell me, it's all right. Please," he adds.

He regards Charles for a long moment, his expression worried, nearly fearful. Then he sits up straight and looks around, his eyes falling on the giant old wireless sitting on the floor a few feet away. He turns to face it and squares his shoulders, slowly lifting one of those hands that Charles likes so much. As he watches, the screws embedded in the corners of the wireless begin to turn and then dislodge from the wood, and a moment later, the front paneling falls forward and all the pieces of the inner mechanisms, wheels and cogs and pins and whatever else, bits as tiny as fingernails and as large as baseballs, fly up and spread out, hovering in the air like an instructional manual come to three-dimensional life. Charles tears his eyes from this exceptional sight and looks at Lehnsherr, whose face has reddened with concentration. He bends the fingers out his outstretched hand very slightly inwards, and the pieces of the wireless begin to fall back into the original places as the machine reassembles itself perfectly. The front panel wobbles and falls back onto the carpeted floor with a muffled thud, however, and Lehnsherr drops his hand, exhaling sharply and leaning forward onto his knees.

"I can't...always control it," he pants. "It's harder...when there are so many pieces. But..."

It's even more amazing than Charles has been imagining. He thought he knew what Lehnsherr might be capable of, but to actually see it happen in front of him is breathtaking. Unbidden into his mind come words, poetic, not his own but perfect for the moment: How infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension...

"...how like a god," he breathes, almost inaudibly. He slides from his seat onto the floor and kneels in front of the wireless, touching its exposed face; all its tiny wheels and cogs look as though they haven't been disturbed in the slightest, although they are warm to the touch. He looks over his shoulder at Lehnsherr. "Is it...anything? Machines, or—?"

"Metal," Lehnsherr replies, and lifts his head to look at him again, his brow faintly sweaty. "All of it, anything."

"Splendid." Charles can't stop grinning as he reclaims his chair. "Simply splendid. And you always could do this?"

"As long as I can remember," he says. "It used to be only when I was...upset, or feeling something strong, but now I can do it when I choose. But it's hard, I can't...well, you see." He gestures at the wireless.

"I can't even imagine what you could do with more time, and more practice," Charles marvels. "You could—you could move aeroplanes, or tanks, or—"

"Me?" Lehnsherr gives a disbelieving laugh. "What about you? You can hear minds, and talk to minds; what if you could control them? Lots, all at once?"

"I—well, I hardly think I—"

"Why not?" Lehnsherr's eyes are alive, dancing in the firelight. "Progress, remember? Being the first one to try." His gaze is almost fierce upon Charles' face for another moment, and then he shakes his head. "I can't—I can't believe it," he mutters, his voice suddenly throaty. "All this time, I thought—I didn't know there was anyone..."

"I know," Charles says, and in the next moment his hand is on Lehnsherr's knee. "I'm afraid you're not so alone here after all."

Lehnsherr looks away, at the floor, but his hand is suddenly on Charles' wrist, gripping it almost painfully tight. They are both silent for a moment, and then, "Max."

Charles blinks. "What?"

"His name was Max. My dog." He grins shyly, still not quite looking at him, as though he can't quite believe he just said something so daft. For a moment his eyes seem over-bright. Charles beams. He moves forward in his chair again, and now their knees are touching.

"I can't tell you what it means to me that—"

There is a bang outside in the corridor, and the two boys spring apart as they hear footsteps. The door to the common room opens. "And what the devil is going on here?" a voice demands, and His Majesty George V comes striding into the firelight's glow.

Lehnsherr leaps to his feet, looking astonished. "I can't fucking believe you started drinking without me," the monarch adds peevishly, tearing a scarf from beneath his beard. "I ought to have you both thrown in Scotland Yard."

Charles laughs. Lehnsherr looks to be seconds away from heart failure. "Very nice," Charles tells the king, and then turns to the other boy. "As I say, not as alone as you might think." Raven resumes her usual form with a grin. Lehnsherr's jaw drops. "Erik Lehnsherr, may I present my sister?"

(Lent.)

"Give it another go."

"You're relentless, you are. I can't, I've had enough."

"Oh, come on, old man, try another." Lehnsherr drums both hands impatiently on the stone ledge and flashes Charles a grin which, Charles has noticed, has only gotten more wicked in recent weeks. "Go on, unless you're too scared."

Charles gives him a withering look. "You might want to rethink using reverse psychology on a telepath. It seems a trifle counterintuitive."

It is morning break, and the two boys sit in the courtyard as a weak March sun puts in a halfhearted appearance from behind the clouds. They are supposed to be revising for a rather large test on Plato's Symposium, but once again they've fallen into their preferred form of coursework: trying out their abilities. They had started over the winter holidays, the day after their conversation, their first real conversation. They had stayed up all night, Raven included, talking excitedly and (while making quick work of the rest of the brandy, as well as a bottle of whiskey brought along by Raven) showing off, with Charles extracting long strings of numbers and increasingly bawdy short phrases from each of their minds, Raven imitating President Coolidge giving speeches and the Little Tramp eating his shoe, and Lehnsherr doing the trick with the wireless again, this time finishing by turning it on and tuning it, taking a deep bow as they other two clapped and the music filled the room: We're all alone, no chaperone can get our number. The world's in slumber, let's misbehave! He had even consented, blushing furiously, to give Raven a momentary twirl when she seized him, laughing, as she and Charles did a very ungainly foxtrot around the room. They had finally fallen asleep close to dawn, all together in Charles' room, with Lehnsherr on the floor, Raven in McCoy's empty bed and Charles in his own. The next morning—or afternoon, rather—when Lehnsherr had come shambling downstairs to the common room in his shirtsleeves, his coppery hair sticking up at odd angles, Charles, having drunk several cups of Raven's brutally sobering coffee already, had greeted him with a cheery salutation and then thrown a candlestick at him.

It hit him in the shoulder, and he had yelped something undoubtedly profane in German before squinting balefully at Charles across the room, kneading his forehead, clearly still feeling the effects of their libations himself. "What was that?!"

"Practice," Charles said buoyantly (for that was the innocuous word upon which they had landed as being the best to describe their efforts), and took aim with the other one in the pair. "Now this time, stop it in the air."

"Xavier, what the hell—"

Charles let fly with the candlestick, and instinctively, it seemed, Lehnsherr's hand had shot up in front of him and the instrument instantly froze in mid-flight, hovering five feet above the carpet. Lehnsherr looked rather pleased with himself, and Raven, seated at the table with Charles, gave him another round of only slightly mocking applause. After a quick meal of eggs, toast and tea, they had begun to make plans, coming up with all sorts of ideas for honing their powers together. Their initial methods weren't the most sophisticated: they comprised mainly of Charles attempting to read simple, clear thoughts from within Lehnsherr's mind, and Lehnsherr attempting to stop or move various objects that Charles chucked at him. They included Raven as well while she was there, with both of them barraging her with things like "old man with long gray beard" or "Louise Brooks in a baseball uniform" and seeing how quickly she could change her form accordingly.

When she returned for Long Leave at the end of February, however, they had progressed by leaps and bounds, and Charles was now testing his abilities on unsuspecting others, while Lehnsherr had moved on to manipulating—not just moving—increasingly larger objects. The two of them could hardly breathe for laughing as they told her about the look on Shaw's face when he had reached for a pitcher of water in the dining hall and found the entire contents in his lap, the entire bottom mysteriously flayed apart. After a half an hour of their excited recitations, she had declared that she'd had "quite enough of you two giggling schoolgirls" and gone off to chat with McCoy. Charles never learned what they talked about, although when Charles found McCoy later that night in the common room, he was outrageously cheery for someone merely sitting there darning socks, as he was.

They have also done a fair bit of theoretical research as well, holing up in the library for hours at a time and poring through any books that seem relevant. Nothing has been terribly helpful in explaining the source of their abilities; Charles notes more than once in frustration that it would have been quite fascinating to test if these things might be genetic, were it not for the fact that he, Lehnsherr and Raven are all orphans, or as good as, with no family to speak of. He had, though, come across that word, telepath, coined nearly fifty years previously by a doctor called Myers, and ever since then he has carried it around inside him like a secret glow. Finally, a definition; a meaning for what he is. They find no such concise term for Lehnsherr, though, to Charles' slight disappointment. "Maybe you're the first one," he tells him encouragingly, but Lehnsherr seems unconcerned. He prefers to focus more on history and action than on terminology, still forever perusing newspapers and books for hints, Charles assumes, of someone else out there like him.

His real preference, however, is clearly for practical application, and he is forever goading Charles to push himself further, to try more difficult feats of mind-plundering. And it works: Charles can now almost always glean full, complex thoughts from others' minds at will; the entire picture rather than snippets, and he can often also extract specific bits of information, things he wants to know rather than simply what the person is thinking at that moment. He can also now make himself clearly heard when he communicates thoughts to others, although in this case "others" is only Lehnsherr and Raven; he hasn't tried it on anyone else yet, assuming that most people would notice and rather object to having a foreign voice in their mind. Lehnsherr, however, remains convinced that with the right amount of focus, Charles could enter someone's thoughts with enough command to control their actions, as if to make them think the voice in their head is their own. He hasn't tried it on either of them, figuring it's an invalid test if the subject is expecting his intrusion. Besides, the idea frightens Charles—but it excites him in equal measure. He's started having occasional headaches again and sometimes he could swear his hair is falling out from the effort, but there's no denying that he's become astonishingly more powerful under Lehnsherr's eager, sometimes bossy encouragement.

"Well, what have we here," Lehnsherr says now, the feckless grin sliding from his face. He's looking past Charles' shoulder, and when he turns, he sees Shaw entering the courtyard, flanked as he so often is now by several younger boys, including Azwell, Leland and Quested. Charles raises his eyebrows.

"Things calmed down in your House, then?" he asks, referring to the previous night when a third-year, Cassidy, had been caned by Shaw merely for filching Licorice Allsorts from the prefects' study. Charles and Lehnsherr had returned from an evening out and were standing on the porch of Walpole House talking when they'd both heard the boy's shriek of pain from inside the House, their heads turning quickly in unison at the sudden, jarring sound. Charles immediately felt a sharp pang of empathy for the lad, but Lehnsherr's eyes had narrowed in anger and he'd made a sudden movement towards the front door, as if set to charge in and put a stop to it, but Charles had prevented him, knowing it was of no use. Lehnsherr shoots the same kind of cold expression across the yard now.

"Relatively," he says. "Go on, mate. Try him again."

"I have tried him, you know that," Charles retorts, half exasperated and half embarrassed. "I can't get through. Something...I'm always blocked. Probably because he hasn't got a single sodding thought that he doesn't share out loud," he adds as an attempt at humor. It's certainly true that Shaw is given not only to sharing his opinions quite liberally, but to boasting about various aspects of his life; he has been telling anyone who will listen, and several who won't, all about how he intends to take a gap year before entering Cambridge and take a grand voyage around the world on a luxurious ship along with the Windsor girl he's been courting, an apparently stunning blonde called Frost, heiress to some sort of gem fortune. Nevertheless, Charles never has been able to break into Shaw's mind, not even slightly; it's as though he somehow knows how to erect a protective mental wall. He's not sure why or how, but he finds it disturbing.

Lehnsherr doesn't laugh at Charles' feeble joke, but continues glowering across the courtyard at him. "What's he hiding, then?" he mutters, posing the same question that he always does when Charles fails to access his thoughts. Charles glances sideways at the dark look on his face, feeling worried, as ever, about the enmity between the two of them. There's also no denying that it's gotten worse over the last term; Shaw has managed to become even more vindictive than before, making snide comments at every available opportunity and reprimanding Lehnsherr for the most absurd of infractions. One evening he had failed to meet Charles at the library and explained the next morning, his voice shaking with suppressed rage, that Shaw had kept him behind, ordering him to redo the creases on his trousers a dozen times over, saying that it reflected on the lot of them and he wouldn't have a no-account sixth former keeping them from having a "clean House." Charles isn't sure what's caused this surge in maliciousness; he wonders if Shaw intends to get as much of it in as possible before he leaves school, or if he's being encouraged by his odd little band of followers. He can't help but think, though, that it's because of the obvious change in Lehnsherr this term, ever since the conversation with Charles and the beginning of their efforts and everything. He's more extroverted, more confident—happier, essentially, and Charles suspects that this infuriates Shaw, even if he doesn't know the cause.

Deciding to distract him, Charles focuses his attention instead on Azwell, hovering dutifully by Shaw's side, and his fingers drift unconsciously to the side of his head. It's just a bad habit he's fallen into, thanks to Lehnsherr's teasing suggestion; he knows it's a bit silly and intends to desist once he's gotten a bit more skilled, but for the time being there's something useful about the pressure on his ability to focus. After a moment, he laughs and nudges Lehnsherr in the ribs. "How about this, then," he says. "You know that scar Azwell's got?"

"Yes?" Everyone does, and everyone also knows a different outlandish rumor about its origin.

"Not from a wild pub brawl. And not from the last desperate swings of a German bayonet, either." Lehnsherr's mouth quirks. "When he was six, he tried to drown his little sister's kitten, and it scratched the dickens out of him. He's mortally afraid of cats ever since."

Lehnsherr looks delighted. "Really?"

"Oh yes," he says. He's quite sure—he'd seen it clearly, the pond, the small, fuzzy gray body, the furious yowls, the prickling sense of terror. The when and where and how, all of it; picture, facts and feelings. He grins, pleased with himself, and they both turn to look at the boy across the way again. "And his sister knocked out his tooth when she found out."

Lehnsherr lets out a raucous bark of laughter, and Shaw and the others look quickly over at the noise, which in turn makes Charles laugh, and for a minute they can't stop. "Shut it, you two," Shaw bellows, evidently irked by all this unwarranted mirth. "This isn't a beerhouse."

"Very sorry, Shaw," Lehnsherr calls back boldly, and then adds "Oi, Azwell, how's your sister?"

"Sod off, Lehnsherr," the boy shouts, apparently instinctively. Lehnsherr puts up his hands in a mock-defensive gesture, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"All right, all right, don't go having kittens about it." The startled, flustered look on Azwell's face is visible even from where they sit, and at this, Charles lets out a most inelegant snort, burying his face in Lehnsherr's shoulder, his whole body shaking with laughter. Lehnsherr unleashes his most fiendish grin yet.

"Thanks," he says. "I quite enjoyed that."

***

Later that evening, they walk together to fencing club, still chuckling over that afternoon's minor victory. Both of them have also improved at the sport; Lehnsherr has observed how it perfect it is that they had met there, as the activity is so thoroughly relevant to their individual gifts. Indeed, Charles has gotten fairly good at sensing his opponent's next moves, and Lehnsherr is unsurprisingly adept with a foil and at rendering his challenger less so. They have acknowledged, of course, that it is less than sporting to have such advantages, but justify it by agreeing that it's only practice, in more than one sense of the word; it's not as though they're in any sort of official competition.

"But of course, we'll have to watch ourselves when we're at Oxford," Charles teases now when they land upon this subject again, turning a bend in the road and heading towards the gymnasium. "We might accidentally earn ourselves reputations as expert swordsmen here, and then we'll be jiggered when we've got to rely on skill alone at university. Well, I will, you're discourteous enough to actually be decent already."

Lehnsherr just gives Charles a faint nod, saying nothing, as he always does when they fall upon the topic of further schooling. Charles' own grin fades. "Oh, really, Lehnsherr, you've got to come," he says in a different voice. "You've just got to. We'll be so much better by then, and there's so much more we can do there, and after... I'm quite sure you can get a scholarship; that really shouldn't be a problem. For your music, perhaps; you play so beautifully."

Lehnsherr smiles at the praise. "Perhaps I could," he agrees, but Charles knows he is being humored. Charles can't understand it; he gets good marks and seems to enjoy study, and he's sure he would be treated with far less rudeness at Oxford, as it's so much larger and the population is, in theory, rather more diverse and mature. And, of course, Charles wants to believe there's other motivation.

"It won't be the same without you," he says, trying to make his voice light and silly, as though he's teasing again, but his stomach seems to squirm a bit as he says it. "Who else will harp on at me about practicing all day and night? And haven't we got a brilliant scientific dissertation to write as well?" He had floated this idea a few weeks ago, after their repeated disappointments at the library in finding any explanatory texts regarding their abilities. Charles has long felt, or perhaps expected, that his eventual career lies somewhere in the scientific field, possibly because of his parents, he supposes, and these past several weeks have increased this dream exponentially and given him an excellent experimental area on which to focus. When he had eagerly explained this to Lehnsherr and suggested that they work together on the matter long-term, however, he had merely responded with inscrutable semi-interest.

He shrugs as they pull open the door of the gymnasium, the light momentarily dazzling their eyes after their walk through the dark grounds. "I'm sure McCoy will make a more than sufficient lab partner, won't he?" he asks, nodding towards McCoy himself, who hails them both cheerfully from across the room, already dressed in his fencing clothes. "You might as well tell him eventually; he'll be fascinated."

"Oh," Charles says, as they turn and head down the steps into the changing rooms. "Er—well—yes, I'm sure that's true." But his stomach now stops squirming and seems to drop like a stone—McCoy? He thinks that Charles regards him in the same way he does McCoy? He likes McCoy very much, to be sure, and has indeed toyed with the idea of telling him about his abilities; his kindly, loyal nature and his extraordinary scientific mind do seem to qualify him as someone worthy of knowing the secret. But for Charles, McCoy and Lehnsherr have never been in the same category, not even for a second. From the very beginning, Lehnsherr has been different.

Charles isn't a fool. And even when he is, it's not about things like this. He knows now what he feels about Lehnsherr; he's known since even before their fireside talk. As new and unusual as the feelings might be, they're not hard to identify, given their unwavering nature and increasing strength. At first he'd thought that he was merely drawn to him because he sensed his abilities, that that first irresistible pull he'd felt towards him outside Walpole House that first evening had been one advanced mind recognizing another. But he soon came to understand it was more than that. And even if he'd had any lingering doubts or strands of denial, it would have been more or less impossible to cling to them after sitting beside him in class, studying The Symposium (which they had never gotten around to revising after all) with Lehnsherr's leg brushing against his under the table and Charles' heart in his throat. For when the lover and beloved come together, having each of them a law, and the lover thinks that he is right in doing any service which he can to his gracious loving one; and the other that he is right in showing any kindness which he can to him who is making him wise and good...well, there is no mystery there.

And he knows how most people feel about these matters—it's illegal, of course, to pursue that sort of thing out in the real world, and at school, the other boys' sniggers and the professor's stern rebukes make their views plain. And at the same time, it's a familiar phenomenon at schools such as theirs; older boys are forever swooning and declaring their mad desire for some pretty younger lad. That's just how things are. But Lehnsherr isn't younger or pretty or innocent, and Charles is quite sure his feelings go beyond mere admiration of loveliness. Every term there is another rumor about someone else being caught or suspected or punished in some scandalous fashion, and they get another lecture after morning chapel about being "proper English gentlemen" and avoiding "immoral behavior" and all that sort of nonsense. It makes not the slightest bit of sense to Charles. The Greeks and Romans apparently couldn't say enough on the subject, according to everything they're made to read in class—they're meant to revere the great classics, to memorize them, to suffer through hideously long essays about them, but then to disregard their messages entirely as being "immoral"? They're told to look to their trusty King Jameses for any and all answers—well, there's plenty in there that's jolly well immoral, in Charles' opinion, stonings and whippings and animal sacrifice and all sorts of mad stuff, and none of that ever seems to bother anyone.

Besides, the potential reactions of everyone else, severe though they would be, concern Charles far less than Lehnsherr's. Sometimes he allows himself to believe that his feelings are in fact reciprocated; Lehnsherr certainly always seems to want to be around him, and he's gotten rather more physical and affectionate over the passing months—a hand ruffling Charles' hair after a particularly brilliant telepathic accomplishment; an approving pat on the leg. Or is he merely imagining it; seeing what he hopes to see? He didn't laugh at the Plato readings, at any rate. There is a fairly obvious solution, of course, one that Charles resists with increasing daily difficulty: he and Lehnsherr seem to have made a tacit agreement that Charles would not enter his mind anymore, not now that he's moved on to more challenging feats, and he hasn't done so. But the temptation is nearly irresistible, even with the risk that Lehnsherr will realize what he's done, just to know.

They change into their fencing uniforms without saying much, Charles forcing himself to keep his eyes downcast. When they return to the main room upstairs, they find that the instructor has gone off sick and left Fitzroy, a wild-haired prefect from Hawtrey House, in charge. The boys split up into their usual groups, having been divided by skill level after the first initial practices, and Charles takes his usual place on the side of the room with Lehnsherr and McCoy, who has also improved, although he has opted for a more straightforward method of actual study of technique and practice. "I think I've had a breakthrough," he tells Charles happily as the boys at the head of the queue take their positions and begin to duel. "Mouse Four is still alive, and it's been eight days."

"Oh," Charles says again, still distracted. "Good. That's brilliant."

"I thought perhaps if I cut the grain intake by a quarter and increased the serum by that much as well, it might just balance it all out and the growth would slow to a manageable pace, because that's what's been doing it, you know, too much accelerated cellular change all at once, and it renders the membrane too permeable and the bacteria gets in far too quickly. But now I think I've finally got just the right ratio, and I'm going to try it on the others tomorrow." He says this all in one breath and then heaves a contented sigh. "So how's your—Xavier? Are you all right?"

"What? Oh—yes, quite all right. Sorry. Bit tired. Er—lot of work, you know. What were you saying? The cells?" He forces himself not to stare at the back of Lehnsherr's head. Just the quickest little peek—

"You do look rather peaky," McCoy says, studying his face thoughtfully. "I think you're rather overworking yourself. I feel like I've not seen you all term." Charles knows immediately that he's right on both counts: he's come back to their room late nearly every night this term, having spent all evening in "practice," and then stayed up until all hours reading and making notes about what they'd done and should do next. McCoy's tone isn't at all accusatory, but there's something about the sincerity with which he says it that makes Charles feel a distinct kick of guilt; he really has been a rather rubbishy friend as of late.

"You're right," he tells him, turning and looking into his earnest face. "I've just had—rather a lot to be getting on with, but that's no excuse for being such an appalling roommate. Do forgive me, won't you?"

"I can't make any promises," McCoy replies, but he smiles shyly as he says it, and Charles knows that it's forgotten. Perhaps he should tell him. Lehnsherr's right; maybe his research will prove useful. There doesn't seem to be a single useful explanation for their abilities out there yet, so if anyone is going to help them break new ground, it's probably him. And—his stomach slips another few inches at the thought—if Lehnsherr really might not be nearby in future... "I say, have you decided what you'll be focusing on once you get to Oxford?" Charles asks him. "Because I've...got rather an idea for something that might interest you, I think."

This time, however, it is McCoy who is distracted. "Gosh, it always seems to be those two, doesn't it," he says, and Charles follows his gaze to the mat, where Lehnsherr has reached the head of the queue and is paired off, yet again, with Azwell. Azwell too has improved considerably over the year, and he and Lehnsherr are decently matched in skill, if not in style. Indeed, this evening Azwell seems to be even more recklessly aggressive than usual, and Charles wonders if he's still smarting over their taking the piss out of him that afternoon. This, of course, only serves to please Lehnsherr, it seems, and he moves with a bold, taunting confidence that is nearly playful. Charles can't quite tell if he's using his abilities or not, but he's certainly having fun with him. "Achilles and Hector, those two," McCoy remarks, shaking his head. "I shudder to think how this will end."

"No, I think he's got him," Charles says, a smile appearing despite his worries. "Look, he's—just there—" They both watch as Azwell swipes at him furiously and Lehnsherr easily dodges him, leaping nimbly out of the way and then surging forward, driving him backwards. He then parries a strike and delivers a devastating riposte to the chest, and Azwell, misjudging his motion, overbalances and lands on his back on the mat. Charles and McCoy both applaud, and Lehnsherr pulls off his mask and grins broadly.

"You'll have to do a little better than that, I'm afraid," he says smugly, and sarcastically extends a hand to help him up. Azwell shoves his arm away.

"Fuck off," he snaps, clearly audible behind his mask, getting clumsily to his feet and recovering his foil. Lehnsherr looks, if possible, more pleased.

"Tsk-tsk." He wags a reproving gloved finger of his non-foil hand. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to be a sore loser?" He turns to walk off the mat, catching Charles' eye and winking.

"I wouldn't talk," Azwell calls after him, standing in an aggressive stance in the middle of the mat. "I doubt your kike of a mother had time to teach you much of anything before she snuffed it, eh?"

There is a moment, one airless moment in which everything stands still and Lehnsherr comprehends what he said and Charles hears McCoy's indignant splutter of "Well—!" and he realizes what is about to happen. Before he can do anything, before he's even moved, Lehnsherr has whipped around and dropped his foil and his mask, and in the next second he is charging at Azwell, his left hand flying out to the side and open, and Azwell's foil shoots from his fingers and rockets across the room. He looks down in confusion at his empty hand, but then Lehnsherr is upon him, knocking him clear off his feet with ferocious right hook directly in his masked face. Blood spurts from behind the mesh, and Charles can hear his howl of pain as Lehnsherr wrestles him on the ground, and without even realizing it he's running forward and he's shouting "Lehnsherr, don't! Don't!" Panic explodes inside him like gunfire—if he loses control, here, now, in front of everyone—if they see—

Everything is suddenly chaos; boys have swarmed around them and are yelling in either indignation or encouragement, it's impossible to say. Charles launches himself at Lehnsherr, now pinning Azwell to the ground with his knees on his chest, and attempts to pull him off, but Lehnsherr throws him off with shocking strength and his elbow catches Charles in the mouth. He falls backwards, knocking into McCoy, who is right behind him, and they both hit the mat as well. Charles tastes blood and lifts his head, and sees what Lehnsherr is doing: one hand is holding Azwell's arms down while the other—the other is poised in the air some eight inches before Azwell's face, his fingers bent, and the fencing mask seems to be collapsing in on itself, like a punctured rugby ball, and the buckles round the back are pulling tighter and tighter as Azwell thrashes in terror, unable to get the breath to yell, and there is nothing but blind fury in that face that Charles knows so well—

"Oi! What the hell d'you think you're doing? Get off of him!" Fitzroy and a few other boys come charging forward and shove several gawping students aside, and they pull Lehnsherr off. Azwell, his arms now free, scrabbles frantically at his throat with both hands, and two of the boys kneel beside him and attempt to wrench off the destroyed mask as Fitzroy yanks Lehnsherr to his feet, taking in the whole scene: the blood on the back of his right glove; Charles and McCoy lying sprawled and stunned nearby. "What the bloody hell are you playing at?!" he demands, giving Lehnsherr a hard shove in the chest. Lehnsherr, breathing hard, his hair all over his face, doesn't even look at him, just continues staring as Azwell on the ground. "Come on," Fitzroy growls, and begins to haul Lehnsherr away by the scruff of his neck. Charles scrambles to his feet.

"Are you all right?" he fires at McCoy, who is still on the ground, open-mouthed and blinking rapidly behind his spectacles.

"Y—yes, I'm fine, but your lip—" Charles doesn't wait to hear the rest, but goes running after them. Fitzroy drags Lehnsherr out of the gymnasium and into the small antechamber leading out into the grounds and then releases him.

"Well?" he says angrily, just as Charles shoves his way through the doors as well. "What've you got to say for yourself?"

Lehnsherr says nothing at all, and Charles jumps in. "Please, Fitzroy, you've got to understand—"

"No one asked you, Xavier," Fitzroy snaps, glancing at him in annoyance, but he plows on.

"But it's not like it looked; Azwell said—"

"Said? I don't give a tuppenny fuck what he said," Fitzroy shouts, his voice echoing slightly off the raised ceiling. He bangs the open door with a fist and Charles jumps aside as it slams shut like a cannon shot. "You can't just go and beat his head in because of what he said, for Christ's sake."

Lehnsherr remains silent, standing motionless, not looking at either of them, his face impassive. "Damn it all to hell," Fitzroy mutters, raking a hand through his wild, wavy hair. "Who's your Head? Shaw?" After a pause, Lehnsherr jerks his head in assent. "Fine. I'll let him deal with you." He opens the door to the gymnasium again and sticks his head in. "You, Drake, come here," he calls, and a younger boy comes trotting out. "Go find Shaw. Tell him what's happened." The boy nods obediently and heads straight for the doors and out into the dark grounds; it's still a few days before the evenings will be light again. "You stay here until he arrives," Fitzroy says threateningly to Lehnsherr, and then enters the gym again, presumably to tend to Azwell and restore some semblance of order.

The instant he is gone, Charles says swiftly "Shaw put him up to that. He told Azwell to provoke you, I know he did."

Lehnsherr looks properly at Charles for the first time, and his expression instantly defrosts several degrees as his eyes fall upon his split lip. "Xavier, I'm sorry," he says quietly. His hand drifts upwards, as if reaching for his mouth, but he seems to think better of it and drops it. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Never mind that," Charles says impatiently, wiping at the cut and ignoring its sting. "Listen, you can't do that. That mustn't ever happen again, all right?"

Lehnsherr's features harden again. "You heard what he said."

"Yes, I did, and it was awful, and frankly I'd quite like to knock him sideways for it as well," Charles tells him bluntly, and he means it. He so badly wants to put his hand on Lehnsherr's shoulder, but he resists. "And I also know that that wasn't at all just about what he said. But Lehnsherr, please, you know you can't let that happen again, not like that, in front of everyone. What if—" he lowers his voice, even though there is no one nearby "—what if someone saw? I mean to say, what if they noticed what you can do? I don't even—I can't begin to think what they'd do with you. You just can't, not after all your work, not after you've gotten so—"

"So we're to hide what we can do?" Lehnsherr says abruptly. "We train, and we work, and we improve ourselves, but for what? Why do we have these abilities, then? For what purpose?" His accent is suddenly so strong that Charles can barely understand him. "What are we to use them for, really?"

Charles blinks stupidly at him. "I—we—well, not that, surely," he stammers, gesturing at the gym, indicating the brawl. "We've only just started, haven't we? But later, after school, once we're even better, we can—we'll..." He trails off. How have they never discussed this? Charles has had endless daydreams about the two of them, older and confident and ever more powerful, studying and traveling the world together, perhaps, and learning all about themselves and what they can do. And doing—something or other benevolent for society as well. He's just assumed opportunities for nobility and brilliance will present themselves along the way, but he's never filled in the details. He's been so focused on the together part, on the idea of them as a pair, unique and apart from the rest, that he's barely spared a moment on what they should actually do, in the grand scheme of things. And somehow, he's never asked Lehnsherr just what he has in mind. He's just assumed—or maybe just hoped—that they were on the same page about that, too.

Lehnsherr just watches him sternly. "I don't know why we have these abilities, but I do know that we can't waste them. Collapsing tea kettles and listening in on schoolboys' secrets; these are children's games." He shakes his head. "No more of this."

Charles can only gape. Just hours ago they'd been sitting together, laughing their heads off teasing Shaw and Azwell and the others, toying with them because they can and because they deserve it, and now—what? "Children's games"? He looks up into Lehnsherr's grim face, and he is struck, not for the first time, at how much older he seems than Charles himself. He is still dazed and on edge by what has just happened, and now he feels foolish as well.

The door to the outside opens, and Shaw comes sweeping in, his arrival suspiciously prompt, in Charles' opinion. He rolls his eyes extravagantly upon seeing the two of them standing there as Drake runs quickly behind him and back into the gym. "God, you again?" he says, addressing Charles with great contempt. "Have you even got any other mates? What are you, his solicitor?"

"Shaw, listen: Azwell was bang out of order. You can't just—"

"I must have missed the bit where you're allowed to tell me what I can't do," Shaw interjects coolly, and then turns to Lehnsherr. He shakes his head. "You just don't learn, do you," he says softly. "You just insist upon making things worse for yourself. I'll never understand it. What exactly did you do to Azwell?"

"Go and see for yourself," Lehnsherr says evenly, looking straight past Shaw and out of the doors and beyond.

"I'm asking you."

"Hit him, then, didn't I."

"Why?"

Now Lehnsherr turns his head and looks at Shaw, straight in the eyes, without the slightest trace of fear or disquiet. Charles is awed by how intimidating he can be with the smallest of movements. He raises his eyebrows as if to say as if you don't already know, but then says, very clearly and calmly, "Because he deserved it."

For a moment, they simply stand there, sizing one another up, saying nothing as Charles' eyes dart between their faces. Shouts and clanks can be heard through the closed door; the session has evidently started again. Then Shaw takes another half step towards Lehnsherr and says in a near whisper "Go and get your things. You've had it. You're coming back to the House with me."

Charles hears the hiss in his voice, and looks down to see him flexing his fingers unconsciously. Something cold and sharp seems to pierce Charles' heart, and he feels a thrill of horror shoot down his whole body. He knows in an instant exactly what Shaw plans to do, and for a moment he thinks he can almost hear the swish-crack that every Eton boy know and, if he has any sense, fears.

"No," he says aloud, and both Lehnsherr and Shaw turn to look at him. "No, Shaw, don't."

"Once again, I'm baffled by your belief that your opinion is at all relevant, Xavier," he retorts, sounding close to laughter. "Honestly, no wonder the two of you are such bosom pals. You share a most charming delusion about what you're worth." He looks at Lehnsherr again. "I believe I told you to get your things." Lehnsherr glances at Charles for the briefest fraction of a second before turning and heading down the stairs back to the changing rooms, leaving Charles and Shaw alone. Charles' heart is pounding; he feels sickened. It's one thing to be beaten by a Head of House, as Cassidy was, but it's quite another to receive a so-called Pop-tanning, executed by the President in front of the entire rest of the Society. They're rare, usually saved for the most extreme of cases, and Charles knows that this is Lehnsherr's fate. It's a well-known fact that it's the harshest punishment one can receive at school, far worse than anything even the Headmaster doles out; the past few Presidents have tried to outdo one another to see who can draw blood the quickest. But the fact that it's Shaw, violent, sadistic Shaw, and it's Lehnsherr, his favorite quarry—Charles is sure that he'll leave him half dead or worse, cut to ribbons from the cane's strokes while they all watch. It's not just the extraordinary pain he'll feel that's turning Charles' stomach, it's the idea of him being degraded like that in front of all those boys, the ones who already look down on him, on everything about him. The thought is completely unbearable.

"I tried to warn you," Shaw is saying, looking down at him with something like pity or revulsion. "I told you not to hang about with scum like Lehnsherr, and you see it's led you nowhere. You make good marks, I hear, and you're from a decent enough family; you're a fool to ruin your chances by wasting time with him."

Charles isn't listening. He's concentrating harder than he ever has before, his hand at his temple, fighting desperately to break into Shaw's mind: leave now and forget about this; leave Lehnsherr alone and don't talk to him ever again; just leave it and go; nothing's happened here; forget about all of this; forget you even know who he is; don't do this don't do this DON'TDOTHISDON'T—

But it's no use, it's like shouting at the top of his lungs into a broom cupboard; there's no echo, no sense of connection, nothing but silence and a wall. "What the devil's the matter with you?" Shaw demands, looking unnerved and taking a step backwards. "You look like you're about to be sick." Charles just stares at him hatefully, knowing he planned this, knowing he's been just waiting for the perfect opportunity; he doesn't need bloody telepathy to understand that. "Right pair of little freaks, you are."

The door to the lower level opens again and Lehnsherr emerges, changed back into his regular uniform. Charles can't tell if he knows what awaits him or not, as his expression remains as unreadable as ever. Shaw points to the door to the grounds. "Get a move on," he says. "And get back inside, Xavier, you've got thirty minutes to go before Quiet Hour."

Charles ignores him, turning a desperate face to Lehnsherr. "I'll come with you," he says wildly, without thinking, without caring that Shaw is standing there. He can feel himself sweating from both his mental effort and his terror. Shaw laughs.

"How exquisitely pathetic," he exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief again. "And all this time I thought he was your little pet. Perhaps I was wrong."

Lehnsherr gives Charles the smallest of smiles. "No," he says, quiet but firm. "Stay here; it's all right. It doesn't matter."

"We'll see about that," Shaw says, eyes flashing. "Move. Now." Lehnsherr spares him one cold look before turning and walking out the door. As he goes, his hand brushes Charles' for the merest second, so briefly that Shaw doesn't notice. Charles watches him go, straight-backed and head held high, as Shaw prowls behind him like an executioner taking him to the gallows. Charles clutches his head with both hands, standing alone in the small corridor in agony. He can't bear it. The idea of him, Lehnsherr, his Lehnsherr, bloodied and humiliated in front of those wretched boys, it's too much—

The door to the gym opens yet again, and Drake sticks his head out. "Erm, Fitzroy says you're to come back in or he'll have you running laps, Xavier," he says timidly, clearly uncomfortable with all this newfound responsibility. Charles just nods vaguely, and the boy retreats. A very large part of him wants to go sprinting into the dark after Shaw and Lehnsherr and...what? Tackle Shaw to the ground and beat him, as Lehnsherr did Azwell? Set fire to the library as a distraction and whisk Lehnsherr off to safety? He feels helpless, knowing exactly what's going to happen and unable to do a thing about it, like when he was a child and sensed his stepbrother's oncoming rages, his mother's failing health.

After a moment he walks unseeingly back into the gymnasium because he can think of nothing else to do. He passes dueling pairs of boys and heads turning to look at him without really noticing them, and moves over to the side of the room, where he half collapses onto a bench. Within moments, McCoy is by his side.

"What on Earth happened? Where's Lehnsherr? They've taken Azwell to the matron; his nose is broken and he won't stop gibbering about Lehnsherr trying to crush his head in or some nonsense—what happened?" he repeats, trying to look into Charles' pallid face.

"Shaw," Charles manages to croak. "Shaw's got him. He's taken him back to the House and he's...he's going to beat him."

McCoy looks stricken, and Charles knows that he too understands exactly how dire of a fate this is. "Oh, no," he murmurs. "That's dreadful. Poor Lehnsherr. Although—well—" He looks awkward. "I suppose he shouldn't have—I mean, he jolly well could've killed him, but—what Azwell said really was awful."

"I should've stopped him," Charles whispers, mostly to himself. "I could've got to him before he hit him. Or I should've known he was going to say that; he was just trying to wind him up and he finally cracked. Anyone would; it's been months of this and it never ends—and now Shaw's got him and he's—he's going to—fucking hell," he bursts out, and slams his fist hard against the bench. It feels as though he's fractured at least three fingers, but he doesn't care. Every nerve in his body is jangling with the desire to jump up again and run right out of there. To hell with Fitzroy and all the rest of them; he won't let him be alone...but Lehnsherr had asked him to stay behind, and it won't make things any easier for him if he goes bursting in there...

"Steady on there," McCoy says, gripping Charles' forearm and looking slightly alarmed at the intensity of his distress. "There's no way you could've known that was going to happen, and I don't think anyone can stop Lehnsherr from doing anything he likes, really." He gives Charles a little shake. "Don't worry, he'll be all right. He's quite resilient, Lehnsherr is. I expect he's been through worse. Besides, we all have our turn in the end, don't we?" He attempts an encouraging smile, although he doesn't sound entirely convinced, as though he knows that neither of them have experienced anything like what Lehnsherr's about to.

Charles isn't at all comforted. He knows exactly how it will be and what Shaw will do; he probably gathered up all the other members of Pop ahead of time, knowing that his little lackey Azwell would follow orders and goad Lehnsherr into something worthy of a beating. Charles can see it, clear as day inside his mind, as if he'd succeeded in entering Shaw's mind after all: he can see Lehnsherr leaning against the window sash in the dark, elegant room, probably made to wear his thinnest, oldest trousers and untuck his shirt, his face a mask, refusing to make the slightest sound as Shaw strikes him over and over, the birch rod slicing through fabric and skin as the other Society boys watch in approval. He can see Shaw's face, with his ice-blue eyes—so unlike Lehnsherr's—alight with pleasure, his sleeves rolled up, having removed his King's Scholar's gown for once, knuckles white as he grips the rod and brings it down with all his strength. He knows Lehnsherr won't react, he won't give Shaw the satisfaction no matter how much it hurts; he'll just stand there with his jaw clenched, forcing himself to breathe, waiting for it to end...

Charles himself is no stranger to pain. He's been caned by regular prefects before himself, of course, and he's suffered far worse thrashings at his stepbrother's hands at home. But at the moment, strange as it is, he can remember nothing ever hurting this much. He knows it's absurd to feel this way when he's not even the one being beaten, but nevertheless, he can't stop hot, bitter tears falling from his eyes and onto his tightly clenched fists.

Chapter Text

When the club session is over, he has to force himself to go downstairs and change before flying over to Walpole House. His hands, aching from where his nails dug into his palms, are shaking as he pulls on his jumper and trousers, and once he is out on the dark grounds again, he breaks into a run, not stopping until he reaches the House. There is no one on the porch, and he closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, as he's hardly supposed to be barging into a House that isn't his own at this hour. He can hear voices and commotion from the common room, but he nips up the stairs two at a time, making hardly a sound—he might not be an expert swordsman, but he's always been spry. He tiptoes through the corridors, looking for the right door; he's never actually been to Lehnsherr's room before, as they always preferred to meet up in Charles' House or elsewhere on campus in order to avoid Shaw. Finally, he finds it at the end on the left: "Lehnsherr, E." and "Summers, A."

He doesn't even bother to knock. He opens the door and sees Lehnsherr standing in front of his desk, bracing himself against it with his hands behind him, his face darkened with pain. Summers sits on his bed across from him and appears to be in the act of offering him a flask. "—best thing for it, mate," Charles hears him saying as he enters.

Without hesitation, before they have even had time to notice him, Charles' fingers are by his head and he's blaring GO AWAY full-force at Summers, and it works: he instantly rises from his bed without another word and walks straight out of the door, passing Charles as though he isn't there. Charles has nothing against him, really, but for the moment he absolutely cannot bear the presence of anyone else. Lehnsherr looks around in surprise and sees Charles, and such a look of weary relief comes over his face that Charles nearly feels like crying again. "Xavier," he says. "I knew you'd turn up."

"Of course I did." Charles closes the door behind Summers, barely taking a moment to marvel at the fact that his powers of persuasion, as it were, have just worked so well. He crosses the room to him. "Are you—are you all right?"

Lehnsherr, as ever, just shrugs, but Charles comes closer. "Please, let me see," he says, now finally putting a hand on Lehnsherr's shoulder. He's sweating, though the room isn't warm. He closes his eyes briefly at Charles' touch, his expression pained.

"No, don't—it doesn't matter," he says again, but Charles pulls him gently away from the desk and looks, and the room seems to spin. It's almost worse than he expected—there are indeed great slashes cut in his untucked shirt and trousers, well over a dozen strikes, maybe closer to twenty, and his lower back and his buttocks and the back of his legs are bleeding. Shaw had clearly unleashed his full ire upon him without the slightest restraint, and no one had seen fit to intervene.

"Oh, God," Charles breathes, and he takes an unsteady step back so they're face-to-face again. "I'm so—can I do anything? Please, I want to—" He feels his throat tightening again. "I tried to stop him. Honestly, I did. I tried my hardest, but you know I can't—there's something about him, I just couldn't get in."

"I know," Lehnsherr says gently. "Please don't look like that; it's not at all your fault. He was always going to do it eventually."

"I couldn't bear it." He can't stop himself; the words are tumbling out of him. "I knew what he was going to do and I couldn't stand it, the thought of you—" He's shaking again and he doesn't know where to put his hands, somehow. "You've got to tell someone. He can't be allowed to get away with this."

Lehnsherr is watching him with an odd kind of sadness. It's a bit like the look he gave him when he had told him about his parents' deaths and Charles had tried to apologize, clumsily, pointlessly. "You know that wouldn't help in the slightest," he says quietly. "People like that, they get away with whatever they like; they answer to no one. It's just how things are. It isn't about right and wrong."

"Well, it should be!" Charles bursts out. "He's a sadistic despot; why are we letting him have any power over anyone else? If he doesn't use it properly, he shouldn't be allowed to have it! Why hasn't someone run him out of school?" He grips his forehead with a hand, the other clutching a fistful of his trousers. "I should've known. I should've stopped him. I'm so sorry, I—"

"No," he interrupts, and he leans forward, grabbing Charles' upper arm in a firm grip. "Stop blaming yourself, for God's sake. There was nothing at all you could've done. I know you tried, and I'm grateful to you. I ought to be the one asking your forgiveness."

"Whatever for?"

"I was—harsh. I shouldn't have said what I did in the corridor." He drops his eyes. "About what we've been doing. I—I didn't mean to say it like that."

"No, you were right," Charles tells him, and now he can't look at him either. "I've been an utter fool. I've barely given a thought to—to what it all means, really, what we can do, and how we're meant to use it in, you know, in the real world. It's just that...it's just that I never thought I'd find someone else here who...I mean, I've got Raven, and she understands, of course, but we're quite different, she and I, and our lives aren't—well, it isn't the same." This is straying far too much into very dangerous territory, but he feels compelled to explain. "I've so very much enjoyed all the time we've had and everything we've done, you and I; it's just felt so very right, and I just couldn't think of anything...beyond that."

Now Lehnsherr's looking at him. "So have I," he says, very quietly. "It's been the best time of my life."

Charles raises his head, almost afraid to meet his eyes; he doesn't know if he can trust himself. "It has? Even with...Shaw and all the rest of it?"

"Of course," he answers, and Charles isn't sure which one of them has moved, but they're far too close now. Lehnsherr's hand has drifted down to his elbow. "How couldn't it have been? I've been...I've never had..." Now he can't seem to find the words either. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"I was alone," he says simply. "And then you found me." His eyes are greener than they've ever been, and Charles can see every eyelash.

Charles has to lick his lips twice before he can speak. Now his arm is parallel to Lehnsherr's and resting against it, his fingertips making the merest dents in the fabric of his sleeve. "I rather think we found each other, Erik."

It's a moment before he realizes what he's said; he's never called him that before, at least not out loud. No one at school ever uses anything but surnames with one another. It's yet another just-how-things-are that he's grown accustomed to. He grimaces slightly, worried that he's spoiled things, but when he looks, he sees a smile curving his slim mouth.

His other hand brushes Charles' face, and his thumb skims very, very gently against the cut on his bottom lip. "Say it again," he murmurs.

His heart is pounding so hard that he wonders if the other boy can feel it against his chest. "Erik," he whispers. And in the next moment, Erik has gripped his face and is kissing him so deeply that it seems to take all the breath from his body, and he feels the same jolt as he did against his hand as they sat playing the waltz, except this time it goes all the way through him, coursing over every inch of skin. Erik pushes against him, chest, hips, hands, and Charles feels his back hit the wall as his hand slides up against his neck, then his cheek, and into his red hair. He trembles all over as he feels lips parting against his own, and he tastes him, salty, and without even trying, without any intention at all, he is in Erik's mind—or perhaps Erik is in his—and he hears him, clear as anything: Charles, I've wanted—for so long—

"I know," he whispers against his mouth, feeling a hand slip to his waist. "Oh, Erik—oh, my dear, you've no idea, so have I, more than—"

And now he's hearing more and seeing more, flash after flash, every moment they've had—the library; the waltz at the piano; the fireside; that very first night in front of the House; the classroom; the wireless—

He feels Erik's hands on his skin, under his jumper, sliding along his stomach, and in response the hand in his hair tightens its grip and Erik gives a soft growl of pleasure, his kiss growing hungrier—

(and more now, even more, further into his mind: a tiny shaggy-eared spaniel leaps from a basket into his arms; a fork leaps into his small hand from six inches away; yellowed newsprint with names, faces and ranks; a swish and a roaring pain like fire; Raven's eyes flash yellow as she changes her shape; his father tucks him into the boot of the neighbor's car; a man in a uniform wears a terrified expression, and savage pleasure rakes his heart; he sees the roof of the Chapel for the first time and feels a spasm of terror)

—and Erik's hips press hard against Charles' as his hands roam further up, and Charles winds his arm under Erik's and presses his fingers hard enough to bruise against his collarbone, and it seems as though he may truly kiss the life out of him because he can't catch a single breath—

(a grand ship on black water; a heavy pen stroke through another name on a list; a surge of energy and a yell and a dismal splash in the dark; his mother's face, tear-stained and so thin; the heady smell of the soil under the floorboards as he hides beneath his bed, covering his ears against the explosions; Charles' face and his hand at his temple; a chain-link fence, tearing apart like paper as he strides through it; the empty house and the crowded graveyard; a voice, pleading and terrified)

—now one hand is against his galloping heart and the other is at the waistband of his trousers and fingers are inching down, and Charles feels dizzy and hot as he moves his tongue against Erik's, and the hand that isn't tangled in his hair is against his back, just above where his skin is flayed and raw, pressing him closer—

(the feel of the black and white keys under his fingers; a low voice reciting the Kaddish at his aunt's funeral; Shaw on his knees, begging; a map, marked to lead him right to them; a rifle flies out of a guard's hands and fall in pieces to the ground; Charles hands him his glove; the ship's horn and a satisfied laugh)

Charles breaks away with a gasp, the back of his head hitting the wall. "What—?"

Erik looks at him, bewildered, almost frightened. "Charles, what is it? What's wrong?" Charles just stares at him, his chest heaving, unable to take it all in, to accept what he's just seen. It can't be. He wouldn't. But he saw it, he felt it all, everything that's happened and what he wants to happen—

Erik seems to be shrinking in on himself, his shoulders hunching, his eyes darting about anxiously, his face paling. He takes his hand quickly from Charles' waist. "I didn't mean—that is, I thought you wanted—"

"What are you going to do?" Charles whispers. "To Shaw, and to all of them? What are you planning?"

The fearful look drains out of Erik's face, and a coldness passes into his eyes. "Were you in my mind?" he asks slowly, looking straight at Charles. "I thought you weren't going to do that."

"I didn't mean to," Charles says. Horror is building up in his chest like rising water, but it's not like an hour before, when he realized what was going to happen to Erik. This is worse, because now it's about what Erik's going to do. "It just...happened. But I felt —I saw—" He still can't catch his breath, the combination of the kiss and his shock making him feel ready to faint. He hasn't collapsed in years, not since the early days when his mind began to reach beyond his control, but this is too much. "I saw...the boat," he says unsteadily. "The one Shaw's been going on about. And him there, begging. And then...what...?" The splash, the laugh, the rush of buzzing metallic power—it's all there. Even as he says it, he realizes he already knows. "You're going to kill him."

Erik just looks at him, not denying it, and Charles reels. Everything is falling to ashes, just seconds ago he was happier than he's ever been, his lips are still burning and yet everything has changed—and that isn't the end of it. That isn't all he saw. "And who were the others, Erik? The soldiers?" he whispers, gutted.

Erik looks to be in great pain again, chewing the inside of his cheek and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. He rubs the back of his neck, hard. "You can't ask me this," he says finally. "You just can't, Charles. Not after—everything."

"What are you doing to do?" Charles repeats, very slowly. Erik says nothing, and Charles' eyes move away from him and onto the wall beside his bed. He's never been inside his room before, and when he entered just minutes ago, he had eyes only for him and nothing else. Now he steps away from the wall and looks around properly, taking it all in: the giant map of Europe as the sole decoration on his side, pinned to the wall and marked very deliberately with different colors; Xs and lines and minute words. Official photos of uniformed men, connected with strings to various cities and towns on the map. The stack of aging newspapers on his desk, with cuttings neatly pasted into an open book. Bits of paper stuck into history books on the shelf, marking the passages he needs. All of it, right out in the open, because he has nothing to hide. The penny finally drops.

"Oh my God." Charles' hand goes to his mouth. It was right there, all along, and he just didn't want to see it. It was all there: his studying, his focus on history and facts and places, his caginess about Oxford and their future and everything beyond. He never planned to go to university. He never even planned to return to Eton for their final year. He never meant to stay with Charles at all.

"You're going after them," Charles says, and his own voice sounds far away to him. "All of them. The ones...responsible for your parents' deaths." How can he not have known? I'm not in the habit of denouncing an entire country... No, he wouldn't, Charles knows; he's too focused for that. He would never sit and brood passively against a vague, faceless entity that has indirectly wronged him. He would work at it for months, years, if necessary, and then he'd go and find exactly the people responsible. And he'd make them pay. "But you're starting with Shaw."

"Don't," Erik says suddenly, once again gripping the desk behind him with both hands, and he turns his head and gives Charles a piercing look. "Don't act as though you understand."

"I don't. Erik, I'll never understand everything that's happened to you. If I read your mind every day for a year, I know I would still never truly comprehend it all." He forces himself to hold Erik's gaze. He can still feel the sensation of hands against his chest. "But I understand you. You said it yourself. And you can't do this." Erik turns his head away with a snort. "What was done to your family was monstrous, and what Shaw's done to you is unforgivable, but you can't kill him, you just can't. Nor any of them."

"What he's done to me?" Erik demands, looking at him sharply. "Do you believe that I think only of myself?"

"What d'you—"

"What do you think Shaw will do when he's out there, in the real world, as you say?" He points out of the window into the velvety darkness; the room is dim enough so that a few faint stars are visible through the glass. "Do you think he'll stop, or that he'll reform? That he'll be satisfied with mere schoolboy cruelties?"

"I—I'm sure I don't know what he'll do," Charles tries to say, but he knows this isn't true either. He knows Erik is right; Shaw has proven himself to be far more dangerous than anyone could have guessed. The idea of him beyond school, out there with real power over others, perhaps, is frightening, Who will be next after Erik? "But that's just it, don't you see, that's why we've got to do something now. That's why you've got to report him; tell the Headmaster, show him what he's done. We can stop him before he gets out to the—"

Erik is shaking his head again, and this time he looks almost disgusted. "Report him," he repeats. "As if that will change anything. He's the Head, and the President of Pop, and his father owns near half the country, and you believe that they'll listen to me over him? That he'll be punished for giving the Boche the beating he surely deserves?"

"Don't call yourself that," Charles exclaims. "I'll grant you that he gets away with far too much; they all do. I'm not daft; I know that's how things are. But he's gone too far this time, anyone can see that. Just look at the state of you." He gestures to Erik's injuries, barely able to look himself. "He'll be stopped this time, I know it. The Headmaster won't have any choice but to do something. It's just immoral."

Perhaps it's Charles' use of that word that makes Erik laugh. It's a harsh sound, nothing like his usual delighted bark. "Dear Charles, always believing the best in everyone, forever tilting at windmills," he says, and there is a cold, mocking note to his voice that Charles has never heard him use towards him before. "It's time someone told you that people aren't really governed by morals; that's simply what they tell everyone else to do. People care for themselves, nothing more."

"What about you, then?" Charles demands, and heartbreak is making him defensive. "You just said you're not only thinking of yourself, and yet you're—you're going to kill everyone who's done you wrong?" He can barely even pronounce the word; he still cannot entirely believe that this is real, that Erik is really saying these things and meaning them. "What morals are those?"

"Isn't it moral to put a stop to those who prey upon their subordinates? Those who are innocent?" he snaps. "I wasn't the first, and you know I won't be the last. You know what he can do out there. You know he'll find more people to hate, others that will fear him and do as he says. He's already got followers, you said it yourself. You know that he'll gain more power, at school and after, he'll marry that heiress and he'll be ever richer and—and he'll crush them."

"But—"

"You know this. More, and more, and again and again. These sorts of people, they don't stop. You've studied your history; you know this is true. ‘The injury therefore that you do to a man should be such that you need not fear his revenge.' They know what people will do if they're forced down like that; they fear it more than anything."

Charles scrambles to organize his thoughts, astonished at how much time and thought Erik has clearly given the matter. "But that's history, that's not now; don't you think we've learned? We learn from mad people like—like Genghis Khan and Leopold and I don't know who else. And what about the war overall? There's no way we'd allow that sort of thing to happen again. What about progress and not resisting sensible change and all the rest of it?"

"It will," Erik says fiercely. "I assure you. It'll happen again. There'll be another, someone else will rise up because we're all too afraid to stop them. Shaw's just the type. Perhaps he won't be some great world dictator, but he'll do his part and there will be others. He has to be stopped for the greater good. I was merely practice to him, and he has to be stopped before he gets worse."

His face is blazing with emotion, his eyes flashing. Something is breaking inside Charles and falling away forever. "And the others?" he asks again. "What of them? Do you intend to—to go after every Allied soldier left in—?"

Erik jerks his head as if dislodging an irksome fly. "I care nothing for politics," he says curtly. "I only intend to find those who committed a great wrong to those who didn't deserve it, regardless of what side they were on at the time; it's as simple as that."

"But it wasn't—they didn't do it on their own," Charles protests, pointing at the photos on Erik's wall. "It wasn't their decision, there's a hierarchy to these things. They were given orders that—"

"Orders?" Erik practically shouts. "What about choice, Charles? Or was it not you who said that what matters is our choices, not what's chosen for us?" Charles is speechless, unsure if he is more stunned by the fact that Erik remembers what he said the very first time they spoke, or that his own words are backfiring so disastrously against him. "Carrying out an inhuman act is no better than coming up with the idea for it," he continues ruthlessly. "It may even be worse, knowing something is wrong and doing it out of sheer cowardly obedience. I can accept that there must be casualties in war, and that there are good reasons to kill and die. But I will never think it right to go after those who can't defend themselves, never."

Charles swallows. He has to make this right. He realizes he's wringing his hands painfully hard. "You know that we're of one mind there," he says, trying to sound calm. "Of course I agree that the innocent must be spared. I told you before, I think that what happened to your people was barbaric, and of course I understand why you would want to avenge them. But killing will solve nothing, Erik. It won't just put an end to it all. You know you won't be allowed to get away with it. You said it yourself, Shaw's quite well connected; what do you think his family and his people will do to you? They'll have you in chains within a day."

"That," Erik replies, "is why he's still alive. I don't intend to be foolish about this, you know."

For a moment Charles can say nothing to the utter pitilessness of this statement, it seems to slap him across the face. "But what about you?" he asks, trying to regain his voice. "What will it do to you? Even if—even if you're not found out, even if you succeed, it will take its toll on you, I know it will. You will never have peace within yourself."

"That is a luxury that I never expected to have," Erik says baldly. "I want nothing more than justice. And I cannot live with myself if I don't try."

He grabs desperately for another tack. "But you're barely seventeen. You're still in school, for God's sake, how will you begin to—"

Erik raises his eyebrows. "I think you can see that I've already begun," he says coolly, with a nod to the map, his notes, his books. "I'm not an idiot. I've been on my own for some time now; I know how to manage myself. And I've used my time here to learn a great deal and to plan everything quite carefully."

"So—what, is that the only reason you bothered to turn up, then?" Charles demands, his voice cracking. Has it all meant nothing? Has every moment they've spent together been a lie? "Just to use our lovely great library to plan your mission?"

For the first time in several minutes, something like embarrassment flickers over Erik's face. He drops his eyes, and his contentious posture sags slightly. "No," he says after a moment. "I thought...there was a time when I believed I could be...that is, that I could have..." He doesn't need to finish it. It's written all over him: a normal life. He closes his eyes and shakes his head briskly. "But that was wrong of me. I have no right to be here when there's work such as this to be done."

"The right—don't be stupid, you've got just as much right as anyone to be here!"

"No," he says again. "I can't sit idly by reading poetry and worrying about A-levels when I have bigger responsibilities. Someone must make things right."

"But why the hell is it your responsibility? Why has it got to be you?" Charles can hear the plea in his voice and he knows how childish it must sound, but he can't help himself. What he really wants to ask is, why has it got to be us? Why can't we have each other?

Erik just looks at him for a moment. Then, without turning his head, he flicks his hand—it barely takes him any effort at all now—and a heavy silver letter opener soars off of his desk and zooms, point first, into the dead center of the map on the wall. "Because I can," he replies quietly. "And because I'm not afraid. I understand now, not only what I have to do, but what I can do. You showed me that."

"Don't you dare." Charles' voice comes out as a hiss, and he points a shaking finger at Erik. "No, don't you dare put this on me. That's never what I meant. I never said that we should use our skills for something like this, to hurt anyone."

"For what, then?" Erik challenges, emphasizing the word in a purposeful echo of his question back at the gymnasium. "Don't you feel that we have a duty to do something useful with our abilities?"

"Revenge isn't useful," he spits, and he's somewhat surprised to find anger bursting through his deep sorrow. "It's selfish." Erik looks outraged, but he plows on. "And that's what you're doing: getting revenge. You can be as high-minded as you like about it, but that's what it is, and it's wrong. You say you're just making things right for the defenseless, but next to you, they're defenseless, Shaw and all the rest of them. To use yours abilities against them—talk about abusing power. Talk about making others fear you."

"It's abusing power to use it at all?" Erik demands hotly. "So you do think we ought to hide, then. It's one thing to have a laugh between ourselves, but it's terribly wrong to ever use it against anyone else; we ought to take pity on them because they're not—because they can't do what we can, is that it? Because they can't, we shouldn't."

"Why is it a matter of against anyone?" Charles fires back. "Why can't we just all—just—"

Erik is giving him that look again, like he's ashamed of him. "What, all be friends together?" he suggests scornfully. "Have you not noticed how people tend to treat those who are different from them? Those they don't understand?" Charles can think of nothing to retort to this, and Erik gives him a calculating look, his arms folded. "You know that there are more of us out there."

"More?" he repeats. "People with...with abilities?"

"Yes, with abilities. We've said this before; I think you have enough sense to know that it's rather unlikely that it's only you, Raven and myself."

"I—well—yes. Yes, I imagine you're right. That was one of the things I wanted to...find out. Later, with my studies." With you.

"And just how do you think they'll react if it turns out that there are loads of us out there? Other people born with other talents, flight or fire or—simply death?" He spreads his hands interrogatively. "What if there's someone who can just kill with a glance? Or with their mind?" He looks pointedly at Charles. "In time, you probably could."

"Don't say that." Charles actually recoils from him. "Why would I ever do that?"

"I doubt you ever would. But that's what they'll be afraid of, and they'll hunt us. Whether it's just you and I or thousands of us, they'll be afraid that we're greater than they are, and they'll hate us for it."

"The way you talk—us, them. You make it sound like we're another bloody species."

"And we very well might be. That's just it, isn't it: we don't know, and they don't know, and the less they know, the more afraid they are."

"You're jumping to massive conclusions. Who's to say that they'll—that anyone will hate us? We can hardly assume that—"

"That's not so," Erik interrupts, and now he points accusingly at Charles. "You do assume. You said it, back at the gymnasium. You said I couldn't let anyone see what I can do, because you ‘can't begin to think what they'd do' to me. Didn't you?"

"That's not what I meant," he splutters, again disturbed by his excellent memory. "I meant—for Christ's sake, you'd just tried to murder Azwell in the middle of the room, and you were using your powers to do it. I think it's safe to say that that would indeed frighten the daylights out of anyone who realized, and quite reasonably so. If you're making the argument that people shouldn't assume that we'd use our abilities for destructive purposes, that's about the worst example you could give."

"But that's not what you said," Erik persists. "I heard you. You said that I shouldn't let anyone else see what I can do, full stop, because you're afraid of what they'd do in response. You never told anyone else about yourself or Raven. She's never shown her real self to anyone else; she said so." Charles vividly remembers the awed, reverential look on Erik's face when Raven had, after much cajoling on his part, revealed her true form to him that night over the holidays when they had told each other everything, or close to it. It had made him feel a brief, acrid twist of something that he later realized was jealousy, although at the time he had merely attributed to the drink. "You told me about your childhood, the way your brother hurt you as your abilities began to appear, the way you were afraid of him realizing what you can do. This is how people are."

"So why did you bother, then?" he demands, again sickened to hear his own words thrown back at him like that. He had told Erik all those things; he had shared things no one else knew because he trusted him... "Why did you trouble with me at all? I see why you wanted the practice—" he gestures to the blade stuck in the wall "but why did you care what I did? Why did you—encourage me? Why did you help me?"

"Because—" Erik bites off the word, as if changing his mind halfway through about answering. He exhales sharply, looking deeply uncomfortable, and then says, "Because you're far more powerful than you know, and I wanted you to see what you can do if you discipline yourself. I've pushed you because you can't let your talents go to waste, Charles." For a moment he looks like a stern professor, glaring authoritatively at him. And then his expression slips, and he looks almost bashful. "And because...you asked me to. Because I wanted...well, I—I like to be with you," he fumbles.

Somehow it's the simplicity of the statement that makes it hurt so badly. Charles closes his eyes momentarily against the sting of it; just a short while ago it would have made his heart soar to hear him say that. Now he can hardly stand to hear it. "You say we've got to hone ourselves, our gifts, and yet you say this will make everyone else hate us," he forces himself to say carefully, trying to cling to the rational, rather than let himself slip under the waves of everything he's feeling. "So we're to deliberately antagonize the rest of society? How will that help anyone?"

"I believe that we have a obligation to make good use of our abilities. The fact that we will be outcast for it is simply a truth I don't choose to deny." His voice is sharp again, hardened by the strength of his beliefs. "And you also know that they'll react with fear first and anger second, but you think that we ought to hide. Don't you?" he presses, when Charles says nothing.

"Only for now," Charles bursts out. "Right now we don't know anything, we don't know why we can do these things or how it happened or if there are others or any of it. Don't you think we ought to know a bit more, to be able to explain properly, because we start running about and calling the newspapers?"

"To make it easier for them," he shoots back. "You want to make it all lovely and comfortable for them to hear that they're not the superior breed anymore. We wouldn't want to upset them, after all, wouldn't want to make waves. Wouldn't want to stand out too much."

"You're twisting everything I'm saying." Charles' chest feels constricted again. "You're so determined to justify what you want to do—murder, Erik. That's what it is, you can't deny that."

"That's what you call it." Erik's voice is dead and icy again. "I call it justice."

"So that's just it, then?" he demands, his breath catching. "After Summer term, you're just going to head off and kill Shaw and them, what, go traipsing around Europe knocking off anyone you find who had anything to do with the blockade? Or will it perhaps go beyond that? Will—will you expand your campaign and go after anyone responsible for civilian deaths in other countries during the war? Or maybe during any time?" He gives a mirthless laugh that is nearly a sob. "Where does it end?"

"I hardly require your mockery, Charles," he says coldly. "To think that I hoped you might understand."

"Understand? You mean agree? How could I possibly—"

"Because you know!" Erik explodes, both hands jutting out in a desperate gesture. "Because you're like me, you're different, you have your abilities, you've lost your family, you know what it means to feel—helpless—" He runs a hand through his hair in great agitation, gripping it hard as Charles had done just moments ago, it seems. "And I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought perhaps you felt..."

His jaw clenches and he can't finish it. Apparently forgetting himself, he leans back against his desk and then jerks forward with a gasp of pain as his lacerated skin touches the wood. Instinctively, Charles leaps forward and takes hold of him. "God, Erik—"

"Please don't." Erik turns his face away from Charles', as though he can't bear to be so close or to be touched by him. Charles doesn't move away.

"And what about us?" Charles whispers, his hands on Erik's upper arms, only vaguely aware of the fact that he's crying. "What about—everything? You're just leaving, for good? And I'm to stay behind and wonder what's happened to you?" He knows it sounds selfish and he doesn't care. At this moment, nothing in the world is real except them.

Erik's eyes are reddened, and he seems afraid to open his mouth again. Charles can see him grinding his back teeth, as if trying to crush the words out of existence. Finally he manages to say "You know that I...I don't wish to leave you. When the time comes I'm sure I will find it almost impossible. It's...the only thing I fear."

"But you're still going."

He drops his head, so that his forehead nearly brushes Charles'. "I've got to," he says, almost inaudibly. "I've got to. It's the only thing that seems right. But I'll never be happier than I am with you, I know that. I won't ever forget what you've done for me." Charles says nothing as silent tears run down his face. Erik finally looks up at him. "Charles, you must know that I l—"

"No." Charles shakes his head violently; he's released Erik and is backing away from him. "No, you can't do that, say that and then go. You just can't do that to me."

Erik just stands there with his arms wrapped protectively around himself. "I never meant for you to be hurt," he says. "Not you, ever. Please don't go."

"I can't." Charles is still shaking his head when he reaches the door. "I can't stay." Erik doesn't move, and Charles thinks he looks terribly small and lonely standing there in the middle of the room by himself, the pain on his face worse than when Charles first came in. His image blurs, and Charles swipes a hand across his eyes as he pulls open the door and runs, along the corridor, down the stairs, out of the House. He throws his head back, eyes burning and lips still aching, trying to breathe, and the night is dark and quiet and cool, as if the world hasn't yet noticed that everything has shattered.

(Summer.)

Erik disappears over the break between terms. Charles stays at school, of course, but Erik is just—gone, or perhaps hiding from him. He's too afraid to search for him with his mind, scared both of how Erik would react and of what he might see this time. Day after day, Charles sits on the porch of the House, trying to read or get some sort of work done, but he just ends up watching Walpole House down the road, waiting, hoping to see him, his hair catching the sunlight like a new penny. But he doesn't appear, not until Summer term starts and classes resume. When he walks into their literature class on the first day back, he keeps his head down and sits on the other side of the room from Charles. He doesn't speak in lessons anymore. At mealtimes, he is alone in a corner of Bekynton with a book, or else absent entirely. They don't speak for a fortnight, which then becomes a month, and then six weeks.

Charles is wrecked, adrift. He can't concentrate on anything; he can't bring himself to care. He gets bottom marks on an essay about Robert Louis Stevenson because he was too busy watching Erik's wrists move across his paper as he took notes to hear the assignment. It's all he can do to force himself to attend class, and sometimes he can't manage even that. Instead he wanders the campus, ghostlike, or else simply stays in his room, lying on his bed and watching the squares of sunlight moving across the ceiling. He stops attending fencing club. McCoy is at a complete loss, having no idea what has happened, and when his tentative questions go unanswered, he hovers, first attempting to rouse Charles with frequent invitations to accompany him to the lab or to a cricket match. When these too fail, he gives up on direct contact and simply leaves nightly cups of tea on Charles' bedside table without comment, watching him concernedly out of the corner of his eye as he works at his desk. This, somehow, only serves to make Charles feel worse.

He fights with himself every day, always the same circle of debate, the same unanswerable questions: what he should do, if anything; what he should say, if anything. In his desperation he wonders if he should alert someone to Erik's plans, and then immediately hates himself for it, sickened by the mere thought of betraying him so. He develops a wild, malformed fantasy of developing his powers enough to enter Erik's mind and force him to stay behind, to stay with him, but then despises himself for that too, knowing how insane and hypocritical that would be. Then he wonders if there is any chance of finding him again, later, after—but he knows it could never be the same again; he wouldn't be the same Erik at all and it would always feel wrong. And then, inevitably, he arrives at anger and resentment: why doesn't he want to stay? How could he let so much happen between them and then simply end it all, entirely, like a sword flashing down? In those moments, he feels as though he hates Erik nearly as much as he hates himself.

Raven visits again at Short Leave in May. Charles hasn't told her anything of what happened; the idea of writing it all out in a letter, actually seeing the words before his eyes, is unendurable. He has tried to restrict their correspondence to discussion of Raven's life only; she has recently taken a flat in Islington with a girl called Angela who works with her at the café. He's been careful to sound as normal as possible in their exchanges, but wonders if Raven is entirely convinced. On the morning of her arrival, McCoy leaves their room rather suddenly and when Charles drags himself from his bed and looks out of the window, he sees them walking towards the House together, having what seems to be a serious conversation. When they enter the room, McCoy gathers his books, mumbling something about needing the library and quickly departs. Charles forces a smile that makes his face hurt and attempts to greet her normally, and realizes within approximately ten seconds that she is not remotely fooled.

"Don't give me that tosh," she says impatiently, setting her things down on Charles' desk chair and giving him a stern look in response to his vague mumble about "just a bit tired from revising." "Something's up with you, I can tell. Your last letter read like a telegram. ‘Classes fine stop lots of rain here stop missing you loads stop.'" She throws herself onto the bed beside him and looks at him levelly. "And you're giving McCoy an ulcer worrying about you. What's happened?"

Charles, who has a laundry list of nondescript responses prepared, falters somewhere between "why, nothing at all" and "whatever makes you say that" and just looks at her for a long moment, his heart feeling about ready to cave in from sheer misery. Then suddenly he is talking, more than he's done since that night with Erik, starting with that breezy afternoon in the courtyard when they'd laughed themselves sick at Azwell and Shaw, and then onto the fencing club, the fight with Azwell, the Pop-tanning, and finally his realization of Erik's plans and their argument. He leaves out what happened directly before the argument, though, and makes it sound as though he spontaneously broke into Erik's thoughts with no provocation, although Raven raises her eyebrows in a way that is a little too knowing when Charles alludes to their being alone in his bedroom at the time. He's never quite told her about his feelings for Erik, although he's not entirely sure why; she doesn't seem at all likely to object. It's more like it was too delicate of a thing to put out into the open, like an unhatched egg that needed warmth and quiet to grow—except now it's all out there and ripped apart, of course. Now he's just afraid that she'll think him a fool for it.

Raven doesn't say anything once he has finally stopped talking, after he ends by admitting that he and Erik haven't so much as made eye contact since that night. She has drawn her bare feet up onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her calves, and she leans her chin on her knees, evidently thinking hard. She ponders the matter so intensely, in fact, that after a moment she slips into her natural blue form, and in an odd way it comforts Charles to know that she cares enough about his situation to give it that much of her attention. A full minute goes by in silence, and then she says "You're not going to like this, Charles."

"What am I not going to like?"

"What I've got to say." She looks him right in the eye, and he feels a leaden sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, because he knows that whatever she tells him, however unpleasant it is, it will be the truth he needs to hear, as she is and always has been completely incapable of patronizing him or evading realities.

"I expect you're right about that, but say it anyway," he replies dully, leaning back against the wall. He has little to lose, anyway; he can't imagine how he could possibly feel worse.

She chews her lip for a moment, and then says gently, "I think he's earned it."

"Earned what?"

"The right to..." She looks slightly embarrassed. "Well, it sounds quite melodramatic to say it out loud, but...the right to his revenge."

Charles looks back at her, wondering in a detached sort of way whether he might feel stunned by this if he could feel anything properly right now. "You think he should—"

"No, no, I didn't say should," she jumps in quickly. "It isn't a matter of that. I'm entirely with you there; I don't think it's his responsibility in the slightest. I think he's taking far too much on himself. And I rather don't fancy the idea of him become a murderer either." She seems to have less trouble with the word than he does, although her brow creases in distaste. "But..." She sighs. "I can't disagree with his idea of justice, as you say. I think he's right; there are people who can't be taught better or reasoned with. There are people who are just cruel, and once they get a bit of authority or influence or what have you...it's quite a dangerous thing."

"But what about all the rest of it?" he presses her. "His other plans, the war and his parents and everything? You can't think everyone who was responsible for that counts as mad despots who've got to be put down to save innocent lives. It's not that simple. He claims he's researching it all and being so terribly specific and careful, but there's no way he can know exactly." This is what he's chosen to dwell on for the past several weeks; it's far easier to focus on the solid logic (or lack thereof) of the facts rather than looking at the deeper, personal parts, the parts that make his chest actually ache as though he's been hit. "He'll end up going after some innocent private and getting himself hanged for it or something. It doesn't—" He breaks off, even though he has plenty more to say on the subject; the mere idea renders him too disturbed to speak.

Raven just watches him gloomily, and she slides over so that she is sitting directly beside him, her back against the wall as well. "You're probably right," she tells him. "But..." Her frown deepens; she appears to be choosing her words carefully. "I'm not sure that's really the question, whether or not he can do it."

Charles looks sideways at her. "What is, then?"

"Well...look, he's a stubborn bastard," she says frankly. "One of the hardest I've ever met, and you know him far better than I do. And what he's been through—I mean to say, it's not the sort of stuff you just get over. He's, you know. Scarred." Charles flinches at the word, but he doesn't interrupt. "So I don't think it's a matter of convincing him that he's wrong or trying to shame him into changing his mind, because it shan't work. If I thought he was just being impulsive, I'd say perhaps you could talk him out of it with time, but he's had ages—years—to stew over this. I think trying to force him to feel any other way will just make him more determined."

"So...what's to be done, then?" he asks slowly, hoping very much that there's a reprieve to this bleak pronouncement.

"I think it might be a matter of precedence," she says, still in that same deliberately measured tone, and she does something she hasn't done in a long time: she reaches down and covers Charles' hand with hers, blue over pale. "The question is whether he'll choose his mission...or you."

Charles' mouth is dry. "He'll—he'll choose me?" he repeats, almost afraid of how simple it seems in her words.

"He'll never be rid of the desire to avenge his parents, and he'll never be amenable to the idea that Shaw is out there, free to do what he likes," she explains. "You won't be able to change those things within him, nor will anyone. But I think they could become...less. I expect that he understands that he can either do those things or he can have you, and I would imagine that right now, that's nearly an impossible choice for him, determined as he is. It may be worth it to him to deny himself those satisfactions if it means he gets something far better."

Charles sits there, dumbfounded, her words rolling over him with crashing blows like ocean waves. He's not sure which part is more staggering, the idea that Erik could want him that much, or the idea that Raven is aware of this, and of what it would mean to Charles if he did. He looks fixedly at his own knees as he says "I was unaware that you had...er, I didn't know that you knew..."

"Oh, Charles, don't be silly," she says, and in an instant is back to her usual dry, brisk, sisterly manner, although her hand is still in his. "Just how oblivious do you think I am? I've known since Christmas, the way you two look at each other..." She shakes her head. "Probably before, with all your damned letters. ‘Oh Raven, I've met the most exceptional chap, he's so unlike everyone else here, you've simply got to meet him. Oh, Lehnsherr said the cleverest thing the other day, ha ha ha.'" She does a thoroughly unflattering impression of a pompous chortle, and Charles feels like smiling for real for the first time in ages.

"I don't sound like that."

"Mmm, you do to me." She gives him an impish sideways grin, yellow eyes twinkling. Then, with the slightly grudging air of one forced to admit a sentimental truth, adds "You're adept at a good many things, but hiding your heart isn't one of them, I'm afraid. It's simply too big."

He does smile this time. It feels almost unnatural on his face after all these weeks. "So you don't reckon I'm condemned to fiery perdition for immorality, then?" he asks. He puts comical emphasis on the word, as if he's only bothering to ask her as a throwaway laugh, but the back of his neck prickles with anxiety as he says it: logically, he knows she is unlikely to think any such thing, having never shown any disapproval of that sort of thing before. But even the vaguest, slimmest possibility of her condemnation frightens him, far more than does the entirely definite reproach from nearly everyone else in the school, because her rejection would matter so much more than all of theirs.

She gives him an odd look, not quite the playfully exasperated expression he hopes for and (mostly) expects. It's something a bit less sanguine, somehow. "I hardly think we get to choose whom we love," she says after a moment. "And I think—I should hope that when we do, it's rather more about who they truly are more than...anything else."

It seems that she wants to say more, but she doesn't, and Charles is distracted by the word she used, the one he has excised entirely from his vocabulary; the one he refuses to let himself associate with Erik, even inside his own mind. He forces it away like a cloud of smoke. "Well...good," he manages. "That's...that's settled, then." He pauses. "So...so you think I've just got to wait it out, then? To see what he does?"

"I don't suppose it'll mean very much unless it's his decision, so, yes, I expect you've got to," she replies. "That's rather a hell of a lot easier said than done, though, isn't it."

"Quite so." They sit in silence for a time, and Charles watches the dust swirling in the shaft of sunlight coming in from the window and considers: he certainly can't say that he feels good, in any traditional sense of the word, but this is the least terrible he's felt in a month, and that has to count for something. "Thank you, Raven," he says softly.

She gives his hand a squeeze, and then slides off the bed, reassuming her blonde-haired form. "Come on," she says. "You've got to get out of here. Let's go to Bekynton and have some of that dreadful apple tart you like so much."

Charles tries to force himself back to life. He tries to make himself to hold onto Raven's words, because they are comfortingly logical, if less than idyllic, but somewhere along the way he has to make his own choice metamorphoses into he's got to choose me, and then into of course he'll choose me and then but he's already chosen otherwise and back again, replacing his previous agonizing wheel of indecision. The urge to speak to him, or just to look him in the eyes again, becomes painfully strong, even though he doesn't know what he'd say; he feels as though he's desperately hoping to be chosen for some terribly important position, and just one more handshake, one more smile, one more moment could push things over the edge in his favor. But he's also afraid.

One day in June just after Long Leave Charles is making his way across the main courtyard in front of the Chapel in the rain; even if he'd remembered his umbrella, he wouldn't be able to hold it along with all his books. He's decided to directly counteract his lethargy of the previous months by throwing himself headlong into work, as though if he fills his brain with enough academia, there won't be room for anything else. As he hurries along, mentally conjugating verbs as he goes (volo, vis, vult, volimus, vultis), he catches sight of Shaw and his—"friends" doesn't seem to be the right word, somehow—usual companions dawdling and smoking under an archway.

He's seen rather less of Shaw as of late, as he's stayed away from Erik and Walpole House, not to mention nearly everyone and every place else, and it's strange to look upon him now, knowing what he does. It gives him both a swooping sense of fear and burden and a savage flare of pleasure to watch him there, smirking and blustering about, entirely ignorant of that fact that he is a marked man. Charles will still never believe that he deserves such a fate, but there's something satisfying about the idea that he is breakable after all; that there could be something so dire and beyond his control ahead of him in his path. His callousness and bravado seem deeply ironic now, and some strange, dark part of Charles wants to march over there and let him know just what his future (might, possibly, likely?) holds, not to save him from it but just to savor the look on his—

Wham. Charles is too busy staring over at Shaw and the others and brooding over this sensational prospect that he barely notices where he is going, and collides violently with another boy, a senior called Howlett, as he rounds the statue of Henry VI. Despite being shorter than Charles, he is stocky and alarmingly well-muscled, and physics proves its unforgiving nature yet again as Charles is knocked to the wet ground, books and papers flying.

"Watch it, twerp," Howlett growls, and stomps off without a second look. Charles can hear faint laughter from across the yard and assumes it is Shaw and company, but doesn't bother to look over. "Sorry," he mutters at no one in particular, and then gathers himself up and starts collecting his things from where they're scattered around him, wincing as he brushes dirt from his skinned elbow.

He recognizes his hand first. As Charles reaches for the puddle in which his now-sodden copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh lies, another figure crouches down in front of him and gets there first, and his heart seems to fail at the sight of those long fingers against the book's jacket before he's even looked up and seen him.

Erik's head is angled deliberately downward and his damp hair partially obscures his face as he wipes the book on his Macintosh, trying to dry it. "All right?" he mumbles, barely audible over the rain and noise of the students around them.

"Yes," Charles says, just as quietly. "You?"

He shrugs, and the gesture is so familiar that it hurts. Charles keeps his eyes on at the ground as they finish picking up his belongings. When they straighten up, he is very careful not to let their hands brush as Erik hands him his things, but he allows himself a momentary look at his face. Close to, he thinks he looks drawn; there are dark shadows under his eyes (slate blue today against the dull sky, almost gray) and he is unshaven, his jaw peppered with gingery stubble. Charles quickly removes his gaze from his face and drops his eyes to the hollow of his throat, just visible between the folds of his shirt, but this proves to be a bad choice when he is immediately seized with a longing to press his lips there. Erik, for his part, looks fixedly at Charles' left arm, and he is reminded of Quested all those months ago, on that very first day. "I just wanted to...check," Erik says, so awkwardly it's as if he barely knows the language. He tenses as if to resume walking, but then doesn't move.

Charles stays where he is as well, his arms full of wet books, his hair dripping cold rivulets down his collar. He opens his mouth, intending to say "thank you," either for the books or perhaps something more, but what comes out is "I've missed you."

Erik instantly flushes. He chews his lip for a moment before addressing Charles' shoes. "So've I."

They stand there for another moment, absurdly positioned and stationary in the middle of the yard as boys run past them and the rain continues to fall. Then Charles says "Erik, can't we—" just as Erik says "I have to—"

Charles wins out. "Can't we...talk?"

"What's to be said?" he asks, his voice firm, if quiet. "I've not changed my mind."

"I know," Charles says. "I didn't expect that you would. Your convictions are far too strong for that."

Erik's frown intensifies, etching deep lines into his pensive face. "Then why can you not respect—"

"Because you can do so much more," Charles tells him (or at least, he tells the top button of his shirt), and he is surprised to hear the words coming from his mouth; he hasn't planned them at all. "You think that this is the best use for you, but you have so much more to offer of yourself than just anger and vengeance."

"I thought I made it clear that it's about far more than that." Charles can hear the strain in his voice as he tries to master himself; there is something bizarre and nearly indecent about having this conversation out in the open, even if no one else is listening. "I'm not acting out of sheer self-indulgence. My own experiences, they're the...the root of my incentive, not the sole cause."

"Your parents wouldn't want this," Charles says suddenly. He knows he has gone too far before the words are even entirely out, and Erik's head snaps up furiously as he says it, finally looking right into his face, but he doesn't stop. "They sent you away to save you; they wanted a better life for you. Not this. Not more death and hiding and—" He swallows. "Loneliness. They thought you deserved more, and you do."

"I'll thank you not to speak of them," he retorts, his voice like a knife-blade. "You know nothing of what they would have wanted. And nor do I, as they're not here to tell me, so I have to think for myself."

"You think you're expendable, that you're just an instrument and that you don't matter because you have no one left," Charles says softly and evenly, and once again he is startled by the words, his and Raven's, because they sound as though they are coming out of someone else, someone calmer and far less torn apart, someone who has reached inside him and pulled out the twisted wreck of his thoughts from these past months and untangled them into something real. It seems that the words will only come in the moment, when he is standing right before him. "But you're wrong. You aren't alone. And you've got somewhere to be, if you want it." Erik jerks his head to the side as if averting his eyes from something obscene and moves to walk away. "Erik. You do have a choice."

The sound of his name seems to hold him there for a moment, and he wavers on the spot for several seconds after Charles stops speaking. Then, with an anguished glance at his face that lasts no longer than a heartbeat, he is gone, walking swiftly across the courtyard, his shoulders hunched, his hair darkened with rain.

Weeks pass. They don't speak again, but Charles catches Erik watching him from across the classroom a few times, although he always immediately ducks his head when Charles looks back. Charles continues attacking his coursework with an almost manic determination; he has rather a lot to make up for from his weeks of depressed indolence, but he is also thinking ahead, to his dream of Oxford and his plans for his future studies. He is strangely determined to pursue his study of and for other people with abilities like his own, with or without Erik, as if to prove that his interest is not, in fact, purely selfish and only about the two of them. He feels the need to prove it to himself, that he can still care about such things, or anything, and that his world isn't really entirely broken after all.

On the morning of the second to last day before the end of term, Charles sits in his House common room with McCoy, revising for their chemistry exam later that day. Charles, who managed only a few hours of sleep after returning very late from the library the previous night, attempts and fails to fight back a yawn as McCoy rereads his notes on Naturalis Historia for the twelfth time.

"I can't read my own writing," he mutters feverishly, flipping a page. "Or perhaps I've forgotten the entirety of the English language. Can that happen with too much revising?"

"Probably," Charles replies, his eyes on his own baffling diagrams. "Here, have a look at mine and see if it makes sense to you." He shoves a page over, and McCoy glances at it.

"No, that won't do. Your handwriting has a serial-killer slant; no one could read it." Charles scowls at him as he looks around the table for something better, and reaches for part a newspaper left abandoned there the previous day. "‘An American engineer, Herbert Ives, gave the first public demonstration of a color television today in New York. The images shown were of a bouquet of roses and an American flag,'" he reads aloud, and lets out a relieved sigh. "Thank God. So I haven't gone completely round the twist after all...although I expect this chap has. Color television—I mean, people are barely used to talking pictures. They won't take to this at all."

"I'm sure you're right," Charles says vaguely, now drawing a complicated system of arrows around his notes on Lavoisier's acid-base theories. McCoy continues perusing the newspaper, turning over a page and stopping at a small paragraph at the bottom.

"Say, Xavier," he says after a minute. "What was the name of that girl Shaw was talking about?"

"What? Oh, I...I don't remember."

"Was it Frost?"

"I'm not—" He thinks. "Yes, actually, I think it might have been. Why?"

"Just a small piece here. ‘The Caspartina, a new luxury yacht commissioned by diamond baron Winston Frost, will set sail on its maiden voyage tomorrow from Southampton with the Frost family and several guests onboard. The first stop on its round-the-world excursion will be Brest, followed by Gijón and Casablanca.'" He tosses the paper aside, looking mildly contemptuous. "Hmm. How lovely for them."

Charles feels a slow, creeping chill of horror spreading up his neck, but it is a minute before he understands why. "Wait, Shaw?" he asks, looking up from his papers. "And that girl Frost? So that's the ship he was going on about?"

"Suppose so." McCoy has returned to his notes, but Charles' mind is speeding up and moving swiftly away from science.

"That can't be," he says, and reaches for the newspaper. "It's sailing tomorrow?"

"Today," McCoy corrects him. "That's yesterday's."

"But term's not over. Shaw's still here. How can he be—?"

McCoy looks up again, frowning over at him in confusion. "It's over for him. Commencement was yesterday. Just how long were you shut up in that library?"

Charles gapes at him. Of course, seniors always left a bit earlier than the rest of the school. How could he have forgotten? "But—he's leaving today?"

"Seems that way. I rather thought you'd be glad to be shot of him, after everything. I expect Britons everywhere will sleep easier tonight with him leaving the country." McCoy's grin vanishes at the look on Charles' face. "Good heavens, what's the matter with you? Where are you going?"

Charles has leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair. "I'll be right back," he blurts, and is out of the room before McCoy can say anything else. He sprints out of the door and into the June sun, the morning light nearly blinding him after so many hours shut up with his books. But all thoughts of revising and exams have now been extinguished because of what he's just realized. He had been thinking of Shaw's departure—and therefore, Erik's—as something off in the non-specific future, assuming only that it would happen sometime in the hazy period after term ended. It had loomed off in the distance like some gathering storm on the horizon; he had never thought it would be this soon and sudden. He's been so worried about what Erik will do that he's hardly considered when he'll do it. His stomach feels like lead as he hurtles up the steps of Walpole House and through the door, ignoring an indignant shout from someone in the common room. He bolts up the stairs and goes straight to the last door on the left and hammers on it. "Erik! Are you there? Please—"

The door opens, but it's not Erik. It's Summers, who stands there in a rumpled shirt with his blond hair all over his forehead, frowning sleepily at Charles. "Is Er—is Lehnsherr here?" Charles pants. "I'm sorry, but it's terribly important."

Summers regards him critically for a long moment, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Then he shakes his head. "No. He's gone. Left early this morning."

Charles lets out a sharp breath as though he's been hit in the stomach, shrinking, needle-like terror pricking at him all over. "Do...do you know where he went?" he manages to ask, even though he already knows himself, one hand on the door frame for support.

"No. He wouldn't say. He never did." As he speaks, Charles looks over his shoulder into the room, and sees that the map and all the photos are gone from the wall and his desk is almost entirely cleared off, except for a small, neat stack of books. "Listen, Xavier, what the hell did you do to him, anyway?"

"I—what?"

"After you two stopped palling around, he was very..." He shakes his head again, as though words can't explain it sufficiently. "Different. Quite different. Bit mental, really. I don't think he slept through the night once all term, he was always up and pacing about and reading and things. And he'd hardly talk about anything at all, especially you. So what happened?"

Charles' mind and heart are both racing. "It's...a long story," he says evasively. His eyes keep returning to the room behind Summers, to the empty space where Erik once was, to the desk, to the wall against which he himself had pressed as Erik's hands roved against his waist as his tongue parted Charles' lips...

Summers follows Charles' gaze, turning his head to look at the cold, neatly-made bed and the nearly empty desk. "He said I could have those," he says, gesturing at the books. "He took most of the rest of his things, but he said he didn't need them all." Charles just nods slowly. Of course he didn't. He would take only the necessary items and nothing else. He always knew precisely what he needed—and didn't.

"Thanks, Summers," he says faintly, and turns to leave. Before he gets two paces, however, Summers stops him.

"Wait a moment," he says, and retreats into the room, reappearing seconds later at the door. "He told me to give you this if I saw you. He said yours got wrecked, or something." He holds out a book, and Charles reaches for it with numb fingers: The Epic of Gilgamesh. He takes it and closes his eyes briefly as the sharp ache in his chest increases. "Sorry I can't...help more," Summers adds in a mumble, evidently embarrassed by Charles' obvious pain.

Charles just nods at him again, and then heads off back down the hall and down the stairs, speeding up as he exits the House and heads back to Cotton Hall. When he arrives back in the common room, McCoy is still sitting there, looking up in bewilderment as he enters.

"Where did you go?"

"McCoy, please listen: I've got to leave straightaway." He rounds the table and shoves his notes and books into a haphazard pile, which he then stuffs into his bag. McCoy looks increasingly confused.

"What d'you mean, leave? Leave for where?"

"Southampton," he says, and he hasn't even realized he's made the decision until the word is out of his mouth. Somewhere in the far back of his mind, he understands that there never was any other choice.

"What? But you can't just go tearing off to Southampton, it's got to be four hours by train at least. And we've got Chemistry at eleven, you'll miss it."

"I don't care," Charles says, and realizes that this is also true. "I've got to go. Hang on." He dashes up to their room and searches through his things, shoving Gilgamesh in his pocket and grabbing a few other essentials. He clatters back down to the common room. "I'm sorry, but I can't explain right now," he tells McCoy, who is standing there looking profoundly flustered. "Listen, have you got any money? I promise I'll pay you back."

"Well—yes." He begins to rummage in his own bag. "But Xavier, please, think about this; if you miss this exam—"

"I know," he admits, looking up into McCoy's sincere face. "I do, really. But...this matters more. In fact, I think this matters more than anything."

"Southampton Town Quay, last stop. End of the line, ladies and gentlemen, so everyone off unless you'd like to join our noble train crew."

Charles is already standing in the aisle before the train has slowed to a stop, and he is the first to jump onto the platform. He didn't sleep a moment on the long ride, his fatigue having vanished and been replaced by nauseating fear. Once he walks away from the train and onto the street, however, he looks around at the bustling, crowded street and realizes that he has no plan whatsoever, no clear method of finding the right ship or locating Erik and—what? Begging? Threatening? Tying him to the wharf with an anchor? He doesn't know, and his brain seems incapable of processing anything beyond the next ninety seconds, so he looks around aimlessly, hoping for some clear sign pointing him in the right direction.

"Well, hullo, you look like you need a bit of a hand." A young man roughly Charles' age steps forward from the curb, a bright smile on his handsome, dark-skinned face. "Might I be of assistance?"

"Yes—no—well, perhaps," Charles falters, looking at him in some embarrassment. "I'm afraid I've never been here before, but I'm....looking for a ship."

"We've got no shortage of those here," the fellow says, nodding down the road to where the sea and several vessels are visible. "Any one in particular?"

"It's called the Caspartina. It's sailing today, and it's, er, quite important that I find it."

He raises his eyebrows interestedly. "Got a ticket?"

"No, it's not that. I've...I've got to find someone."

He smiles again. "Seeing off a sweetheart, perhaps?"

Charles huffs a soft, sad laugh despite himself. "Something like that."

"Well, I'll surely help, if I can. How about a ride?" He gestures grandly, and Charles realizes that he is standing in front of a motorcar, one of the new taxis from London. Having never ridden in one before, he is intrigued and nods, walking forward to step inside. The cabbie jumps in the front seat, looking heartily pleased. "You're a brave one, guv; you're my first fare all day. People aren't taking too kindly to the new model. Still prefer the old hansoms, I think. But I say you've got to change with the times in order to make it, you know? Evolve."

"I most certainly do know," Charles tells him. "I'm Charles, by the way."

"Good to know you," he says, tipping his cap slightly and winking at him in the mirror. "I'm Armando. Now let's find your ship, shall we?"

They head down the main road until they reach the docks, and Armando drives slowly along as Charles leans absurdly halfway out the window, reading the names painted on the sides of the ships as they go. Finally, he spots it: not the largest one on the row, but certainly the most pristine, her sides gleaming with black paint so shiny it still looks wet and her name written in bold letters. "There," he exclaims, and Armando pulls over to the side of the road. He quickly jumps out and shuts the door, and Armando leans over to address him.

"Shall I wait, then?"

"Er, if you don't mind," Charles says, feeling foolish for not wanting to be left alone. "Well, actually, if I'm not back in a quarter of an hour, I suppose—here." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of shillings, both his and McCoy's. "How much do I—?"

Armando waves a hand. "I can't very well charge you if you don't find her, that'd be right wicked of me," he says with a grin. "Go on, hurry; we'll settle it when you come back."

It takes Charles a moment to realize who he means, and then another to understand the kindness of this offer. "Thanks very much," he says awkwardly, pocketing his money again. "I'll be right, er..." He doesn't know how to finish it, but turns and hurries off towards the ship, his heart in his throat again. Passersby look at him askance, and he realizes he is still wearing his embroidered school vest, probably looking terrifically young and silly to them all. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, the afternoon June sun uncomfortably warm on his face and neck. Despite this, he begins to run as he gets closer to the Caspartina, and when he gets to the end of the dock he hear the great engine's hum and sees that several young men are already untying the massive ropes mooring the ship in place, and he realizes that they are minutes from shoving off.

He looks up at the vessel and sees figures moving about on deck, although the violent glare from the bright golden railings prevents him from making out their faces. He knows Shaw is up there somewhere, a man now, no longer a schoolboy, no longer in his black robes, his heart probably bursting with self-satisfaction...and Erik is here as well, somewhere, no doubt having arrived well before Charles and probably before the rest of them. He is always so precise; he would have known every detail of the ship's departure and planned it all out perfectly. Charles actually looks down at the dark blue-gray water, as if expecting to see Erik's ginger head bobbing just above the surface as he circles the ship like a shark...but no, he would already have sneaked aboard; he's probably spent the last few hours crouching in the dark in the bowels of the craft. Charles can picture him there as if he's looking straight through her metal side: dressed in black, maybe, his face set and alert, his breathing soft and his heart filled with purpose as he waits for night and for his moment...

Charles has half a mind—more than half, really—to leap aboard the ship himself and search until he finds him, but he is afraid of exposing him, afraid of what Shaw and the others will do to him if he is found stowing away, much more afraid that he is for himself. And more than that, he knows that Erik will never come with him now, no matter what he does, not when he's gotten this far. He stands there on the pier, tormented in knowing he is so close and yet already far away. He listens to the water lapping and sailors shouting to one another and horns blowing in the distance, and he does the only thing left to him: he braces his right index and middle fingers against his head and, concentrating with every fiber of his being, trembling with effort, knowing it is futile, closes his eyes and calls out to him: Erik, don't do this. Please, please don't do this. You still have time, just come home. Come back with me. I'm begging you, if you can hear me, please don't do this. You're better than this. Please, Erik—

But there is nothing. He can't sense his mind; he feels no connection at all. His words merely disappear into the warm, salty air like the tail of a lost kite. Perhaps Erik is hidden too far into the ship's body for Charles to reach him, or perhaps he has discovered a way to block him with his mind, like Shaw can. Erik understands Charles' abilities at least as well as he himself does; of course he would know how to resist them. Charles just stands there, looking at the brilliant ship, the reflection burning his eyes, unable to move or look away, until a voice calls out to him.

"‘Ere, you can't stand there, lad. Got to clear out. She's headin' out in a mo'." He looks around, barely able to see for the harsh glare and the tears gathering in his eyes, and makes out a sailor gesturing him away from the dock. "Go on, then."

Charles just nods faintly in the man's direction and turns away, walking mechanically back up the quay. It is all over. There is nothing left to be done. He climbs the steps and stands on the wharf and watches as the ship rumbles fully to life and then, very slowly, turns at an angle and begins to move away from the dock with much clanging of bells. A few people passing by near where Charles stands stop to watch as well, waving at the strangers on board as it pulls away and heads for the sea. He watches it go for a few minutes, his heart searing and in flames, worse than it's ever been, it seems. He turns away, putting his back to the sea, leaning against the rail, his breath coming in uneven spurts as though there is a heavy weight on his chest. It is all over.

Something pokes him in the backside, and he reaches automatically into his back pocket. His fingers close over the book, The Epic of Gilgamesh, which he'd hurriedly stashed there and then forgotten as he dashed away from the Eton campus that morning, heading for the train station, his heart swelling with terror that he would be too late. He pulls it out and looks at it: it is slightly bent from having been sat on for several hours on the train, but looks otherwise untouched, as though Erik had never read it. Of course not; why would he bother. He opens the front cover, and sees a short message inscribed on the title page in Erik's cramped, spiky handwriting, written in German in case Summers or someone else saw, or perhaps because he could only say it in the language closest to his heart:

Charles knows what it means, or perhaps senses it. He knows because they are the two things he most wants to tell Erik himself; the only things remaining to be said. But he scarcely feels the words' impact; there is nothing left to break. He clutches the book tightly in one hand and covers his face with the other, trying to breathe, trying to remain standing. There is nothing left.

He feels a hand, light on his shoulder. He looks, and it's Armando, a concerned look on his face. "You all right, guv?" he asks gently.

Charles turns and looks out at the sea again, at the slowly shrinking Caspartina and right at Erik himself, or so it feels to him. "No," he says quietly. "No, I'm afraid I'm not."

It is dark when Charles makes it back to Eton. He passes Bekynton and hears loud laughter and chatter from within as boys celebrate the end of term with a lavish meal, but he walks by without stopping, as uninterested in eating as he is in seeing anyone, despite having had nothing all day except coffee. The sense of jittery, heart-pounding panic that began when McCoy read the news story aloud has gone now; he feels nothing but a dull, heavy, smothering grief that weighs on his shoulders, his heart, his lungs, everything, all the more potent because he had known it was coming. There was never any real hope of stopping him. He's not sure if it would have been better or worse to catch him there and receive his rejection yet again—it would have been horrible to be so close and to watch him go, but perhaps it might have been worth it to see him one final time. He takes the book from his pocket again and just holds it as he walks, feeling the warmth of the only souvenir he has.

He turns onto Eton Wick Road and his free hand drifts into his pocket, feeling the coins clinking gently together there. At least he'll be able to pay McCoy back straightaway; he needed less than he thought, not having eaten or anything else. He'll want to know what happened, of course, and he'll be in a right state about Charles having skipped his chemistry exam. Knowing him as he does, Charles imagines that he probably attempted to make up some excuse for him to the professor, maybe suggesting he had some sort of extremely virulent and rare 24-hour illness that rendered him incapable of sitting the test that day but of which he would surely be cured by tomorrow, so couldn't he please have another go, just this once, sir... Charles knows exactly the fretful expression he'll be wearing when he enters their room, and he tries to worry about the test as well, tries to feel pleased and grateful that he has such a steadfast mate in McCoy, but he can't bring himself to feel anything other than destroyed.

He passes Walpole House, and his head turns automatically to look. The House is quiet and almost entirely dark; the boys who haven't yet left are probably all at the dining hall, delighting in their freedom from Shaw's tyranny. He turns away and looks ahead to Cotton Hall House. As he walks towards it, the front door opens and someone steps onto the porch.

He can't see anything other than his outline from that distance in the dark. And yet he instantly knows who it is, perhaps just by the way he moves; perhaps because he knows him by heart.

Charles takes in his breath and can't stop, he is filling and filling and seems to be lifting off the ground. He realizes that he is running, the sounds of his own breath and heart terribly loud in his ears as he covers the last few yards with great strides and jumps up the four steps to the porch in one movement. And then he stands, and looks.

Erik is dressed in traveling clothes, with a worn canvas bag slung over his back, a flat cap on his head and a thunderstruck expression on his face. His hand is still on the door when Charles lands in front of him, and for a moment neither of them can speak. Then Erik says, "I thought I'd find you here. Where did you go?"

Charles is panting, only partially from his sudden sprint. When he says "Sou...Southampton," the word is barely more than a breath. He hardly dares to believe it, afraid he'll disappear if he blinks.

Erik exhales sharply, and for a moment he looks torn between laughing and crying. Then he says "I made it all the way there." His hand is still on the door, and he seems to be gripping on for dear life. "But then I...couldn't. I was standing on the wharf and I just knew it wasn't...where I was meant to be. Suddenly everything I've been thinking, everything I've thought I needed..." He looks into Charles' face as if he hasn't seen him in years. "I can't explain it; it just wasn't the same anymore."

"We must have just missed one another," Charles says faintly, his breath still coming hard, his mind reeling at the madness of it all—he had stared out the train window all the way there, onto streets and platforms and passing trains, thinking only of that face and those eyes, and they were probably heading right towards each other at the time... "I saw it go. The ship, I mean. And I thought you...well, I thought I was too late."

"So did I," he says, with half a glance back into the House. "I thought perhaps you'd already gone home, or..." He trails off. Charles just watches him, taking him in, everything: his face, the sound of his voice, the movement of his hands, the feel of him standing there in front of him. "You went to find me?"

"Of course I did." He can think of no other way to say it. They continue to look at one another for a moment, and Erik's gaze drops to Charles' side, to the hand still clutching the book. Charles looks down as well. "Oh, I...I've got this," he says, pointlessly.

"Oh." Erik nods, looking uncertain and fearful again, almost childlike. "Right. Good."

And as though he has planned it all along, as though it is the only thing that could possibly be right, Charles steps forward and puts both arms around Erik's neck, and kisses him with everything he has, not caring who might see, not caring about anything else in the world. Erik responds in kind, nearly lifting him off his feet, his arms tight around him, biting gently at Charles' mouth in his ardor. His hand goes up into Charles' hair and the other grips the back of his shirt, and when they finally come up for air, Charles kisses the hollow of his throat and then leans in closer, his mouth close to Erik's ear.

"Thank you for the book," Charles says, very softly. "And I love you as well."

Erik pulls back and looks searchingly at Charles for a moment, as if verifying the words in his face. His eyes are—beautiful; he can't tell any more than that at the moment. Erik kisses him again, hard, and then buries his face in his neck.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, echoing his would-be last message, his words just barely distinguishable, still clinging on very tight. "And I'm staying. I swear it. It's finished. I'm not leaving you again."

Charles holds onto him, feeling his shuddering breaths and taking in the scent of his hair (which still smells of the sea air, he thinks), knowing deep down in some quiet place inside himself that it is not true, not entirely: Raven was right; it will never be finished, he will never be entirely rid of the ghosts that haunt him and the darkness that he carries. Things will never be perfect, Charles thinks; the past will always hang over them both like a mist. But what matters is that he wants it to be finished; he wants something more of himself than rage and sorrow. He's made his choice. Whatever else happens, he's decided that it—that they—are worth it.

"Good," Charles whispers. "That's all that matters, then." His mouth finds Erik's again, and then they simply stand there, entwined in one another, pushed together—or maybe pulled—by some force they can't name, some demanding want, something electric and alive.